Beyond the happy ending... re-viewing female citizenship
within the Mexican telenovela industry
Author:
Lewkowicz, Eva Helen
Publication Date:
2011
DOI:
https://doi.org/10.26190/unsworks/23817
License:
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/au/
Link to license to see what you are allowed to do with this resource.
Downloaded from http://hdl.handle.net/1959.4/51257 in https://
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Beyond the Happy Ending…
Re-Viewing Female Citizenship
within the Mexican Telenovela Industry
Eva Lewkowicz
PhD
2011
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Acknowledgements
As the saying goes, we are hardest on the ones we love. This study has been a labour of
love and by no means should my critique of the Mexican telenovela betray my admiration
for this rich cultural form and its industry. I ♥ Mexican telenovelas. As the afternoons wore
away over the years, I found great inspiration in the tales of love and betrayal that played
out before me — for their passion, their sincerity, and their audacious triumph against all
odds...
As life began to imitate art, and the convoluted plotlines of my own labour of love
entangled, my resolve was secured through the unwavering support of my family. I am
forever indebted to you and I hope that you understand my immense gratitude. These
thanks are not nearly enough for the blessing that you bring to my life. To my treasured
friends, thank you for your continuing support — for listening to my ideas and keeping me
sane. Thank god I’ve got you. Thank you so much to my supervisors Dr Michelle
Langford, Dr Olivia Khoo and Mr Scott Shaner for your continuing encouragement, insight
and patience. I am very grateful for your extraordinary care in helping to make this research
what I hoped for. And to José Nayver González Rosales, who always wanted his name in
print; thank you for your unwavering assumption that I was more than competent.
As I fell in love with these wonderful stories and forged my own, I developed a great
respect for those involved in the ongoing triumph of the Mexican telenovela industry. To
those writers, directors, producers, scholars and critics who gave me their time and
encouragement, I am eternally grateful. Thank you for sharing your passion with mine.
And finally, to those loved and unloved women whose triumphs and tragedies haunt the
pages of this text — your audacity was my true inspiration.
3|Page
Al pajarito del campo:- Que guíe el camino
4|Page
Introduction
The End
Beginning: Making the ‘Tidy Nation’
Chapter One
The Melodrama of [‘Tidy’] Nation-Construction
Chapter Two
The ‘Bigger Picture’ ; Plotting a History of Female Mythification
Chapter Three
Production and Consumption ‘Values’ within the ‘Bigger Picture’
Chapter Four
Founding Female Citizenship within the Telenovela Rosa
Middle: ‘Breaking’ the ‘Tidy Nation’?
Chapter Five
The Limitations of Resistance within the Telenovela de Ruptura
End: [Money] Making [with] the ‘Unruly Nation’
Chapter Six
The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’ ; ‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the Teen
and Comedic Subgenres
Chapter Seven
The Melodramatic Downfall ; ‘Disturbing’ the Narrative Formula within the
‘Telenovela de Alteración’
Conclusion
Beyond the ‘Happy Ending’?
5|Page
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‘Históricamente la sociedad ha castigado con dureza a sus Mujeres.
No les perdonamos a nuestras madres, a nuestras hermanas o a nuestras hijas, lo
que si le perdonamos a los hombres de nuestra familia.
La sociedad pone encima de la mujer una responsabilidad que no pedimos.
Se espera de nosotras sometimiento, abnegación, y la renuncia de los deseos.
Porque a un hombre se le ocurrió que la familia, es la base de la sociedad.
Y que la mujer es la base de la familia.’
‘Historically, society has punished its women mercilessly.
We don’t forgive our mothers, our sisters or our daughters, what we forgive the
men of our family.
Society burdens women with a responsibility that we did not ask for.
It demands of us submission, abnegation, and the renouncement of our desires.
Because it occurred to some man that the family was the basis of society.
And that woman is the basis of the family.’
‘Capadocia’ (Argos Productions 2008)
8|Page
Introduction
The End
Introduction: The End
As Marcia dies in the arms of her true love, she gasps her gratitude to the man she gave her
life for. While the pulsating music sweeps to a frantic crescendo, and the blood dries on her
ashen face, she explains why she took the bullet meant for him; ‘I did it, I did it all for love.
Because I love you, I love you more, more than my own life’.
Love conquers all in the Mexican telenovela. Misery, suffering, betrayal; nothing can
silence the beat of a loving heart. Its pulse keeps hope alive in the most desperate of
circumstances. Its warmth gives comfort to those ravaged by its eternal grasp, unable to
relinquish a lover’s scent, touch or taste, despite the insurmountable obstacles standing in
the way. Love is an endurance test whose contenders blindly battle over an average 120
episodes to their ultimate triumph; in the arms of their true love.
Yet despite this promise, not all who end in their lover’s arms are deemed to be ‘true’ nor is
their ending so ‘happy’, as indicated by Marcia’s fate. As discussed with Mexican
telenovela professors, critics and scholars in 2007 and 2008, integral to the telenovela love
story is hatred and the survival of the fittest. In interview in 2007, telenovela industry
executive Laura Sanchez explained that not everyone in the Mexican telenovela has the
right to be loved (2007, pers. comm., 8 Feb.).1 Within this serialised soap opera, for a
woman to be loved, she must be ‘good’. To be ‘good’, she must exhibit certain qualities.
1
All interviews, television and research material have been translated from the original Spanish by the author.
9|Page
Telenovela executive Hernán Vera clarifies that ‘the telenovela profiles the model of the
perfect woman’ such that ‘Woman exists to have children. So to have children she must
have a husband. To have a husband, she must be a virgin. When she acquiesces to her
husband, it is ‘til death do us part’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January). This woman is the
story’s protagonist.
As coordinator of the Writer’s Development Centre at Mexico’s Televisa, Latin America’s
largest television conglomerate, Sanchez is well versed in the dichotomous dynamics of the
loved and the unloved woman. Hernán Vera’s position as once part owner of Argos
Productions, Mexico’s largest independent production company, qualifies this formula.
Their theories can be tested upon close analysis of any number of Mexican telenovelas
from over fifty-years of television history, whose ‘happy endings’ reveal the exclusionary
prerequisites for those charged with the narration of these epic love stories.
Thus, following the Mexican telenovela’s recent fiftieth anniversary (1958-2008), this
thesis explores a variety of texts pertaining to the Mexican telenovela genre, to determine
not only those exclusionary narrative tropes that reappear, but also the reasons behind the
perpetuation of an exclusionary representational schema at the heart of the telenovela
narrative. For despite the changes to form and content throughout the genre’s history, the
perseverance of core narrative tropes, whose ideological parameters mirror nationalist
logic, seems at odds with the ‘post-national’ nature of the privatised contemporary industry.
In particular, the appearance of exclusionary ideologies regarding race and class — but
specifically gender and sexuality—within the texts reviewed here, suggests that the
10 | P a g e
formulae identified by telenovela executives are not only pervasive within the Mexican
telenovela genre, but also constitute an important site of sociocultural discourses which
provide insight into this popular cultural form.
To understand the significance of the telenovela’s exclusionary representational schema in
relation to the sociocultural meanings beyond the ‘happy ending’, it is important to look at
the form’s textual dynamics, beginning at the end of Mariana de la Noche (‘Mariana of the
Night’ Televisa 2003).
As Marcia’s eyes lose focus and she declares her eternal love, Ignacio confides ‘when you
met me, my heart no longer belonged to me’. Lurking in the background is Mariana. She is
the local primary school teacher and she loves Ignacio. Her strawberry blond hair, soft gaze
and pretty clothes compliment her love. As the love of Ignacio’s life, Mariana is the story’s
protagonist.
Suffice to say, it is evident that the central frame is for heterosexual lovers only. Although
there may be ‘flamboyant’ male hairdressers, fashion designers, transvestites and other
such characters within a telenovela narrative, they are for comic relief only. As television
and film director Antonio Serrano states, gay characters ‘always end up being a caricature’
(2007, pers. comm., 23 January). These men may have a boyfriend on the side, but the
antics of this often jealous, melodramatic couple never constitutes the heart of the narrative.
They are merely adjuncts to the main couple, and part of the extended community of the
Mexican telenovela. They rarely appear in non-comedic telenovelas, and even if they do,
they remain peripheral. Within this world, lesbians do not exist- either in comic or serious
11 | P a g e
form. The romantic heterosexual couple is the love of the telenovela’s life.
Yet as with Marcia and Mariana, even this construct has its conditions. Not every
heterosexual character is eligible to form part of the couple at the heart of this love story.
Following the dichotomous formula outlined by Sanchez and Vera, female characters come
in two types; good and bad. The good have the right to be loved. The bad do not.
Mariana is everything that Marcia is not. From telenovela beginning, Marcia is proud,
assertive and unforgiving. She wears pants and revealing clothing and smokes cigarettes.
She uses sex to get what she wants and even her way of loving is aggressive. Furthermore,
Marcia does a ‘man’s’ work. She is the manager and part owner of the mine, and she treats
the workers badly: shouting and swearing at them. She has no motherly instinct. Following
telenovela logic, it is unsurprising that Ignacio does not love her.
As the ‘bad’ woman, Marcia is undeserving of Ignacio’s love. Following Sanchez’s logic,
this is the sacrifice she must pay ‘for a life of immorality’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February)
which sees her planning to kill Ignacio, rivalling Mariana for his love, seducing the
telenovela ‘galán’ (hero), falling pregnant with his baby, miscarrying before stealing
Mariana and Ignacio’s child and claiming it as her own, obliging Ignacio to marry her, then
attempting to murder the child. Following these transgressions, Marcia is the story’s
antagonist.
Exemplifying the exclusionary characterisation and narrative trajectory for female
12 | P a g e
protagonists and antagonists within the Mexican telenovela, the contrasting fates of Marcia
and Mariana suggest that the Mexican telenovela love story does not merely narrate the
triumphs and tragedies of two star-crossed lovers but rather is more interested in
threesomes. In fact, the key third party involved in the romantic love triangle makes the
telenovela love story just as deeply a tale of hatred and revenge. Thus from the romantic
couple’s first embrace to their last, both love and hate form the driving force of this
narrative; the heart to which all other elements are added.
Here the ‘happy ending’ is premised not just on Mariana’s moonlight wedding to Ignacio,
before the blessing of God, but also Marcia’s death in the arms of the telenovela galán.
Thus, despite Marcia’s tragic sacrifice for Ignacio, her death is no tragedy. In fact, Marcia’s
demise is inherent to the ‘happy ending’ of this 135 episode love story. When her eyes
finally roll back into her head, she sets the heroic couple free to fulfil their destiny, just as
hers is complete. Contingent on the defeat of the 'unloved woman', this ‘happy ending’
highlights the fight between two women for one man, and their consequent reward and
punishment, as the true narrative heart of the telenovela ‘love’ story.
Clearly love does conquer all; at telenovela end, despite the pain, despair and tragedy that
marked the path to their ultimate union, the love of Ignacio and Mariana rises from the
ashes to claim its victory. As the lovers embrace, their happy ending becomes all the more
profound for its seemingly eternal delay. As Diane Vela explains, ‘even though it sounds
repetitive, the story’s long awaited ending is worth waiting a long time for’ (11).
13 | P a g e
So established is this schema that it can be traced throughout different periods of Mexican
telenovela history, despite a half-century of innovation within the form. This is not to assert
that change does not occur. Over fifty years of the Mexican telenovela have seen many
changes in both its form and content; from the gripping telenovela thrillers of the mid
1980s to the social realist texts of the telenovela de ruptura movement in the mid 1990s
and the teen hits of the 2000s. The creation of over forty-five different telenovela subgenres
is indicative of these transformations and earns it the moniker ‘melodrama of a nation’, for
its response to national trends and moods (Cueva 1998).
Yet, despite these surface level variations, the representational schema of this popular genre
seems to resist core structural change. As Director of the Writer’s Development Centre at
Televisa, Cuauhtémoc Blanco explains, telenovelas have ‘changed in appearance’ but ‘in
essence, the telenovela as a genre, does not change’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). In
particular, the schematic ‘reward’ of marriage and maternity for one type of woman, and
the punishment through death, incarceration and myriad other forms of ‘exile’ for another
type, is upheld. As scholar Elena Galán Fajardo explains, ‘Despite the changes, woman
continues to be represented through the same tropes and stereotypes’ (Galán Fajardo 2007,
45).
In this light, the genre’s changing form and content constitute what scholar Olga Bustos
Romero considers to have been mere ‘pseudo changes’ for its female characters (2007,
pers. comm., 19 January) as the perpetuation of certain female ‘types’ at the narrative core
persists. Telenovela producer for Argos Productions Marcela Mejía explained in interview
14 | P a g e
that certain elements of the female representational schema have been updated, such that
‘they put a character in an office’ but that ‘they do not develop her role’ (2007, pers.
comm., 17 January). Instead, the traditional ‘schema of the mother at home’ is maintained,
which according to Mejía, ‘no longer exists’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Despite the apparent simplicity behind the representational schema honed over fifty years
of love and betrayal, and its apparent permanency within the telenovela genre, what
determines the maintenance of this narrative schema and its categorisation of ‘good’ and
‘bad’ women reveals more complex truths about the Mexican telenovela and its industry.
Indeed, exactly what designates the protagonist as lovable and the antagonist as unlovable
is not as indiscriminate as cupid’s arrow. The galán falls in love with a very specific type of
woman and her best assets don’t just have to do with his personal predilection for blondes
or brunettes.
This study posits that the pervasiveness of these narrative tropes can only be contextualised
when reading telenovela text as a ‘site of discursive practice’ (Mittell 2001, 9). Using this
notion of the telenovela as a nexus at which social and cultural discourses manifest, enables
the telenovela to be read as a product of the cultural imaginary, of which nationalist nationbuilding ideologies throughout Mexican history are the foundation. Here female characters
are an allegory of the nation; agents of Mexican Government policies concerned with ‘the
necessity of producing and reproducing the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172) during key periods of
nation construction such as during the Mexican Independence (1810-1821) and the
Revolution (1910-1920) periods.
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This framework provides the context within which the exclusionary female characterisation
within the Mexican telenovela can be read. and a brief overview of this context introduces
the links between history and representation that underline this study.
Writing on the Independence period, Jean Franco observes how wifedom and motherhood
were seen as ‘a shelter from political turmoil’ for the ‘new men’ of the nation, and became
synonymous with the guardianship of private life (Franco 1989, 81). In response to the
secularisation of the religious sphere and the subsequent ‘displacement of the religious onto
the national’ (Franco 1989, 81), women were charged with the task of guarding the purity
of the nation by ‘carving out of a territory of domestic stability and decency from which all
low elements were expelled’ (Franco 1989, 81). Writing on the Revolution that took place a
century later, Ilene O’Malley describes how in the aftermath of the Mexican Revolution,
motherhood and the family unit were similarly endorsed as a means of ‘restoring the
population’s physical and “moral” health […] to create responsible workers for the
rebuilding of the economy’ (O’Malley 1986, 138). Within this context, the anti-feminist
movement flourished, and many saw feminism as a threat to the nation. As O’Malley states,
‘Mexico […] needed to increase its population in order to prosper, and birth control (a
major feminist goal) would prevent the increase’ (O’Malley 1986, 124).
Following this logic of ‘woman-as-nation-construction’, nationalist ideology posed
marriage, maternity and existence within the domestic sphere as an indication of true
womanhood. The creation of a female counterpart, whose personal agency, independent of
those tenets of appropriate femininity, threatened the nation-building project, followed this
16 | P a g e
schema. So too did the inherent sexualisation of this dichotomy, which persecuted female
sexuality outside of the constraints of patriarchal institutions by configuring female
existence as either virgin or whore. The corresponding battle to celebrate one whilst
eliminating the other identity ensued and is evident within official government policy and
legislation. It is also perpetuated within the cultural industries throughout Mexican history.
Once played out within national literatures and cinema, in particular Mexico’s golden era of
cinema in the 1930s and 1940s, the female dichotomy finds its perfect vehicle within the
telenovela and it is here that the 'melodrama of the nation' takes on more symbolic meaning
for its narration of a deep cultural core concerned with the generation of female citizens
‘appropriate’ for the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the nation.
Important to note here is that although this thesis focuses on Mexican nationalism through
the telenovela, this television genre is not just a Mexican phenomenon. The telenovela
genre has found popularity in many different nations, throughout Latin America, Asia and
Europe. These nations have adapted the format to their own cultural contexts, maintaining
elements of the melodramatic schema and morality play. Consequently, the dichotomous
representational schema that is explored in this thesis cannot be deemed exclusive to
Mexico, nor can the Mexican telenovela be deemed exclusively ‘made in Mexico.’ Like all
genres, the Mexican telenovela is a hybrid text. From its roots in US and Cuban radio
drama to the long-term practice of sourcing telenovela from abroad for adaptation, the
Mexican telenovela is a truly transnational entity.
However, despite this hybrid lineage, the Mexican telenovela provides the perfect vehicle
17 | P a g e
for nationalist ideology. This is explored in Chapter One but suffice to say, the Mexican
telenovela’s heightened Manichaeism, for which it is renowned, contributes to the
particularly exclusionary representations of nation that this study identifies. This is evident
with the role of re-makes in the Mexican telenovela industry. Epigmenio Ibarra outlined the
prevalence of this practice in the industry when stating that ‘the majority of telenovelas that
have been made over the past few years, have been either new versions- the remakes- of old
telenovelas, or stories that are in other Latin American countries’ (2007, pers. comm, 9
February).
In addition to explaining the reasons behind this practice2, Ibarra argued that ‘when we buy
stories in other Latin American countries we come across the fact that the set of values that
exist in these countries, including in our own region of Latin America, is not that same as in
Mexico’ (2007, pers. comm, 9 February). Álvaro Cueva explained the problems that this
created for writers charged with their adaptation, in that ‘they have to recontruct the stories
so that there are at least some points of contact. And many times they fail to do so’ (2007,
pers. comm.12 January). For Cueva, that is why ‘many telenovelas are not working
nowadays’ (2007, pers. comm.12 January).
The tendency to revert to what are deemed by television companies as the cultural values of
Mexico, follows within this context. Thus, in spite of its inherent hybridity, the Mexican
2
As Ibarra explained; ‘a central problem is where you find writers capable of doing one hundred and twenty
hours of drama. It’s exhausting for all of us […] and then in this industry in this country where there are so
many dogmas and strictures for the telenovela, and so much cultural deformation in television, it is really hard
to find someone who will say to you ‘look, here’s a good idea.’ So, what have we done? We’ve gone to
Colombia […] we’ve gone to Venezuela. We’ve gone to Chile’ (2007, pers. comm, 9 February).
18 | P a g e
telenovela’s attempt to maintain a connection with the audience via a continuum of
re/producible audiovisual and narrative codes, re/produces a particularly nationalist
schema. Arguably, the prevalence of remakes serves to instil a particularly national
ideological schema within the Mexican telenovela genre. It is for these reasons that the
focus of this study remains legitimately largely within the borders of the Mexican
telenovela and its industry.
Following this logic, Chapter One explores the more general relationship between national
history and popular cultural fiction, before subsequent chapters trace this association within
the Mexican context. It begins by observing those characteristics of the nation-as-historicalconstruction that facilitate this relationship, such as the nation’s construction through
processes of ‘banal nationalism’ (Billig 1995, 6) to which the telenovela’s serialised
melodramatic form is particularly matched. Following the work of Hayward (2000),
Castellò (2007, n.d) and Berlant (1997) the relationship within popular fictional forms such
as national cinemas and serialised television melodrama contextualises the importance of
serialised melodrama to the Mexican telenovela’s nation-building potential, as ‘a genre
whose repetitive and melodramatic structure seems to be tailor-made for nationconstruction’ (Estill 2001, 187). Here the finite number of episodes culminating in an
ultimately ‘happy ending’ are key to this project of constructing what scholar Adriana Estill
calls the figuratively ‘tidy’ version of the ‘ideal imagined’ community onscreen. As
journalist Sam Quiñones details, ‘The ending was crucial. For with it came a moral
conclusion: love conquers all, the world’s complexities are neatly resolved, and above all,
the bad guys get what’s coming’ (Quiñones 2001, 57).
19 | P a g e
Within this ideal Manichaean world, with its ‘tidy’ race, class, gender and sexuality
representations, the patriarchal nationalist project of nation-construction finds a prime
[time] site within the twenty-first century. Indeed, the telenovela provides a unique
platform for this project, with Manichaean characterisation and plot constructing a veritable
dramatization of those nationalist ideologies and behaviours conducive to patriarchal
nation-construction. Those representations endorsed or denied take on far greater meaning
than the narrative undulations of television melodrama.
The construction of an ideal female ‘citizen’ within the ideal community follows and the
inherently exclusionary nature of this citizenship becomes clear with reference to Berlant’s
work on ‘sex and citizenship’. Contextualising the logic of ‘woman-as-nation-construction’
within popular cultural forms, this work highlights the importance of female sexuality to
this schema. In fact, mirroring nationalist investment in the female dichotomy of the virgin
and the whore, female sexuality constitutes the primary category for female citizenship
within this figurative version of the national imagined community.
It is here that this thesis introduces the telenovela love story as integral to the nationbuilding equation. Beyond the ‘sweet nothings’ of ‘blind’ romance, the love story
effectively serves as a citizenship test, to determine which tenets of femininity, including
sexuality, are endorsed and which are vilified. The romantic love triangle forms a key
means through which those women conducive to nation construction are selected. Indeed,
where the protagonist’s ‘appropriate femininity’ secures her reward [through marriage to
the telenovela galán and maternity] she is granted ‘permanent residency’ as custodian of
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this community.
In contrast, the antagonist’s transgressions of the law of the ‘tidy nation’ make her
repulsive to the telenovela galán, and warranting punishment, she is exiled. This eternal
battle between good and evil, emblematic within the melodrama genre, provides a clear
formula for ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity as determined by the project of
‘tidy’ nation construction. Indeed, within the telenovela love triangle, it is the antagonist’s
opposition to the protagonist that disqualifies her as a legitimate candidate for nationconstruction. Her ‘unfeminine’ personal agency that sees her active pursuit of the
telenovela hero’s love situates her in this battle against ‘good’.
Thus just as female characters and the telenovela community take on allegorical
significance, so too do the exclusionary dynamics of the telenovela love story. It is here that
the importance of telenovela heroes such as Ignacio comes into play. As a figurative
representation of the power of the state to endorse or deny different forms of female
sexuality, the galán is the site of the telenovela’s central battle between two women for one
man and it is his choice that equates to the awarding or denial of citizenship. Most clearly
upon narrative conclusion, when the galán finally rejects one woman and marries anotherthe relationship between telenovela narrative dynamics and the parameters for ideal female
citizenship within the Mexican nation are highlighted.
Consolidating this relationship between telenovela fiction and reality, Chapter One ends
with common criticisms of the negative ramifications of the Mexican telenovela love story
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for gender norms. Here, the work of Yolande Le Gallo (1988) as well as such NGOs as the
Consejo Ciudadano por la Equidad de Género en los Medios de Comunicación (‘Citizens’
Council for Gender Equity in The Media’)3 indicate that the Mexican telenovela’s narrative
schema has dangerous repercussions for social behaviour (Caballero 2008). For these
critics, the deceptive ‘banality’ and enduring popularity of the powerful telenovela love
story only exacerbate this danger.
However, in order to provide a more comprehensive analysis of the Mexican telenovela
love story’s perpetuation of nationalist discourses within what can be described as the
‘post-national’ context for twenty-first century production, when the relationship between
the ‘privatised’ cultural industries and the state is increasingly less tenable, Chapters Two
and Three focus on the those multivalent elements contributing to this exclusionary
schema. ‘Female mythification’ becomes the focus of this analysis. Conceived here as the
historical construction and ongoing perpetuation through official as well as popular cultural
channels, of exclusionary discourses originating with the state surrounding notions of
‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity, female mythification relies upon the
‘naturalisation’ of these discourses within the cultural imaginary.
Highlighting the inherent relationship between history and myth within this phenomenon,
Chapter Two begins by tracing the creation of Mexico’s female dichotomy from its colonial
origins. Here female mythification starts with two ‘opposing’ female figures from the
conquest of Mexico; the Virgin of Guadalupe whose apparition in 1521 made her the
3
See <http://www.observatorioequidadmedios.org/>.
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mother of Mexico and La Malinche who as mistress and interpreter of Spain’s head
conquistador, was accredited with the downfall of pre-conquest indigenous civilizations. It
then flourishes as these respective figures of the Virgin and the Whore are used within
state-driven nation-building projects during the Independence and Revolution periods. The
‘natural’ progression of these discourses occurs within popular cultural texts, as advocated
by the post Revolutionary governments of the twentieth century. Here, along with a body of
literature developed by the literati, which set out to ‘diagnose’ Mexican National Identity,
female mythification becomes consolidated within the cultural imaginary. This shared
understanding of ‘Mexican’ cultural values thus secured the ‘naturalisation’ of the female
dichotomy within Mexico.
Importantly here, by tracing how both the ideological tenets and processes of female
mythification became ‘naturalised’ within the cultural imaginary, it is possible to provide a
more comprehensive picture of why those nationalist ideologies which formulated the
female dichotomy continue into the present day. Indeed, locating the telenovela within the
Mexican cultural imaginary clarifies its status as a complex site of cultural negotiation, and
consequently, as a site of mediation (Martín-Barbero 1987, 1993).
Through material gained from over twenty interviews with industry executives, scholars
and critics in 2007 and 2008, Chapter Three reveals the multivalent components of the
‘ideological ecosystem’ for female mythification, which facilitate this. This includes not
only official historical investment in the female dichotomy via popular cultural texts such
as the telenovela, and the subsequent influence of this cultural imaginary on audience
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reception and industry ‘values’, but also both active audience consumption practices and
commercial industry production imperatives. Thus, whilst acknowledging that the
‘naturalisation’ of female mythification within the cultural imaginary does shape both
production and reception practices, the ‘ideological ecosystem’ includes other important
factors that facilitate the perpetuation of these ideologies within the Mexican telenovela.
These include time constraints on production processes and audience affiliation with
particular narrative dynamics.
Consequently, Chapters One, Two and Three establish the theoretical and historical
parameters for the relationship between women, nation-building and popular cultural texts.
They also trace those multivalent industrial factors, which facilitate this project into the
‘privatised’, ‘post-national’ context of twenty-first century telenovela production. Chapters
Four through Seven then put this framework to the test through the detailed analysis of
seven different telenovelas from 1997 to 2006, with further reference to programming from
the very first serial melodrama in 1957 to the latest mini-series in 2010.
Following the principles of good storytelling, there are three parts to this study, composed
as a beginning, middle and end. Entitled Founding Female Citizenship within the
‘telenovela rosa’, Chapter Four rounds out ‘The Beginning’ of this thesis by providing a
detailed reading of woman-as-nation within the traditional telenovela’s narrative tropes.
Although one of the more trite telenovelas surveyed within this thesis, a close reading of
Rosalinda (Televisa 1999) is conducted not only for its formulaic nature but also for its
spectacular ratings failure. Indicative of the shift towards a more ‘revolutionary’ phase of
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the telenovela (a product of Mexico’s vast political and economic changes around the turn
of the millennium during which Televisa’s long-term government affiliated television
monopoly was challenged by new commercial rival TV Azteca) Rosalinda’s shortcomings
lead into an analysis of the telenovela de ruptura in Chapter Five.
Entitled The Limitations of Resistance within the ‘telenovela de ruptura’, Chapter Five
traces the sites of ‘rupture’ in El Candidato (TV Azteca 1999) and Mirada de Mujer (TV
Azteca 1997). Yet whilst some ‘untidying’ occurs around the inclusion of once taboo
themes such as political corruption, drug trafficking and illegal immigration, this analysis
finds that the racial, class, gender and sexuality dynamics of the ‘tidy nation’ stand upon
narrative conclusion. Identifying the ‘limitations to resistance’ posed by those narrative and
industry tropes as outlined in Chapter Three, Chapter Five plots the ‘rise and demise’ of
this revolutionary phase, from the mid nineties to approximately a decade later. Here, the
ultimate reversion to the more financially viable traditional formula sees the continued
female mythification within the telenovela form, despite promises of its ‘rupture’.
However, like all good telenovelas, the narrative arc of this thesis does not end so
tragically, or so soon. As ‘The Middle’ of this story, Chapter Five provides the turning
point in the thesis narrative, such that beyond the exclusionary configurations of the
telenovela de ruptura’s ultimately ‘happy ending’, Chapters Six and Seven provide a
surprising twist in the telenovela’s story.
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Entitled The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’- ‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the Teen and
Comedic Subgenres, Chapter Six explores how these two subgenres — which result from
attempts by producers to cater to niche markets with Rebelde (Televisa 2004-2006) and to
capitalise on a particular ‘national mood’ with La Fea más Bella (Televisa 2006). The
alternative narrative tropes within these subgenres inadvertently challenge the resistant
schema. Here, there is a move away from female rivalry for the love of the telenovela
galán, as a principal means of narrative drive comes via the investment in alternative
narratives other than the heterosexual love story. As such, the dynamics of female
mythification tied to the melodramatic form are displaced, in what might be called the
triumph of the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) over the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du
Plessis 1985, 56).
Following the potential of telenovela subgenres to ‘break’ the exclusionary dynamics of the
traditional narrative formula, Chapter Seven then identifies how this ratings pursuit can
wreak havoc on even those more traditional telenovela romances. Here, the ‘disturbance’ of
the telenovela formula and its exclusionary dynamics follows both attempts to capitalise on
ratings hits via narrative extension (Amor en Custodia, TV Azteca 2005) and to cater to
audience tastes through the greater number of characters within an increased cast size (Tres
Mujeres, Televisa 1999). Thus both narrative extension and multiple protagonists
characterise what is conceptualised and labelled here as the “telenovela de alteración”
(telenovela of disturbance). The ‘downfall’ of the [Manichaean] melodramatic narrative
formula that follows within this newly 'coined' commercial formula, sees the disturbance of
the traditional elements of the love story, including its exclusionary gender configurations.
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Thus both Chapters Six and Seven constitute ‘The End’ of this thesis arc, in a seemingly
predestined ‘happy ending’; where the apparent limitations of a commercial industry are
ironically those elements which most help to break female mythification. Here the ‘tidy
nation’ meets its match with a commercial logic that creates ‘unruly’ character possibilities
and storylines. However, a look ‘beyond’ this ‘happy ending’ in the conclusion of this
study questions how sustainable this equation actually is.
Importantly here, despite the formulaic nature of the Mexican telenovela and its industry,
this study resists any foretold conclusions. Rather, it looks into the Mexican telenovela’s
non-narrated future to consider the various possible fates awaiting its next landmark
birthday. In light of the ratings slide that has accompanied increasingly powerful audiences
embracing newly emerging media markets, this may prove to be dire, as telenovela
directors and scholars alike have confirmed that ‘Television Azteca and Televisa ratings
have fallen sharply’ (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). Arguing that ‘the formula
is running out’ film and television director Antonio Serrano suggested that both producers
and audience are simply tired of the telenovela genre (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).4
It is in this light that this study takes place, situated at a figurative crossroads in telenovela
history. Television journalist and telenovela writer Álvaro Cueva painted a picture of this
crossroads, plotting a scenario in which the continued demise of the telenovela’s heyday
follows its inability to innovate. Within this equation, telenovelas have become a source of
4
As Serrano explained; ‘They provide a reflection of ourselves and I think that we are tired of lookling in that
mirror because I feel that we are much more than that […] those that make telenovelas are tired too […] they
make the minimal effort’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).
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great disappointment for devoted audiences, such that ‘right now, Mexicans are very
annoyed with our telenovelas because each time there are less points of connection, with us
and our reality’ (2007, pers. comm.12 January). Arguing that ‘society has changed’ (Cueva
Á. 2007, pers. comm., 12 January) scholars outlined the gendered nature of this equation.
For Vera, real women are ‘years in front of women onscreen’ (2007, pers. comm., 22
January). For Blanco, the telenovela genre perpetuates a set of moral virtues despite
changes in gender roles throughout Mexican society. As he states, ‘of course the scope for
female public life has grown enormously, but essentially the moral and ethical virtues of
women [...] have to be defended tooth and nail. Otherwise we would be talking about
another genre, not the telenovela’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Following the logic espoused by Blanco regarding the inpermeability of the telenovela’s
moral code, Cueva traced the implications of a ‘type of divorce between the public and
telenovelas’ (2007, pers. comm., 12 January) stating that
‘the new Mexican woman, like the new woman all over the world, is a very independent
woman […] and that just isn’t happening in the telenovela! […] So what happens is that
these women find refuge in another type of programs, on television, in series, in foreign
productions, in order to find a reflection (2007, pers. comm.,12 January).
Consequently, new media platforms and technologies are altering the Mexican telenovela’s
historically successful repertoire. Many of those interviewed identified the rise of cable and
satellite television as the means through the television market has diversified. Interviewees
also identified the ease of access to alternative programming through the Internet as
exacerbating the Mexican telenovela’s increasing ‘disconnect’ with television audiences.
For Cueva, this phenomenon is a result of telenovelas ‘not comply[ing] with democracy’
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(2007, pers. comm., 12 January). Stating that ‘now that we have other voices, telenovelas
cannot adapt’, Cueva suggested that this is only exacerbated by the changing audience
relationship to content in the new media landscape (2007, pers. comm., 12 January). Here,
as Vera explained, ‘the audience’s relationship with the product will be different’ as
‘technology will radically change the control of content’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January).
In this new media environment, it seems only logical that ratings have diminished such that
‘[n]ow there are telenovelas that have 11 points, 12 points’ which for Cueva, is ‘an
embarrassment! In a country where telenovelas always had more than twenty five!’ (2007,
pers. comm., 12 January) The potential exacerbation of this ratings decline follows the
current industry investment in ‘hard-hitting’ mini-series that attempt to win back those
audiences who have defected from broadcast television. Although such mini-series and
their new narrative scope look to take an important place on the Mexican free to air
broadcast landscape, industry executives have emphasised that this will not ‘detract’ from
the telenovela and its rich traditions (Agencias PDA 2007).
Similarly, if the statements made by Televisa’s president Emilio Azcárraga Jean in
February 2008 are any indication, this remains unlikely. In a speech entitled ‘Televisa:
Vision of the Future’, he explained that; ‘at this time Televisa has reached the limits of
expansion in Mexico with 70 percent of audience share in a country of more than 100
million inhabitants’ (AMAP 2008). As a consequence of this state of play, Azcárraga
confirmed that over the next decade, Televisa would develop ‘a plan to expand into
international markets based on relationships with strategic partners and packaged content’
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as well as towards those national markets that provide room to grow, such as the pay
television market (AMAP 2008).
This declaration seems to suggest that the beloved telenovela genre has effectively reached
its commercial potential. Whether saturation means stagnation for the telenovela remains to
be seen. Yet in light of this uncertain future, such questions highlight the importance of
looking closely at the Mexican telenovela as it passes the half-century mark. For although
there is abundant writing on this genre, no study adopts an historical perspective that
considers the textual dynamics of the form at the nexus of social, cultural and industrial
factors, and the reasons behind their persistence following the dynamic nature of these
factors. Within Mexican telenovela literature, the interrelationship between the nation, the
industry, its transnational success, the genre and its representational schema, as well as
audience reception, remains largely unexplored.
It is here that the theoretical framework of this thesis contributes to the significance and
originality of this study, and to the field of telenovela literature in significant ways (AMAP
2008). Situated in the field of genre studies, this thesis moves beyond a mere textual
analysis of the genre, to consider those wider sociocultural, historical and industrial factors
that contribute to the genre’s development and ultimate recourse to particular narrative
tropes. Thus whilst this thesis uses particular texts to track the permutations of the genre
over an historical continuum, and considers ‘questions of definition’ by identifying ‘core
elements that constitute the genre’ (Mittell 2001, 4) it does not consider the Mexican
telenovela genre as constituted by texts that are ‘bounded and stable objects of analysis’
30 | P a g e
(Mittell 2001, 7). This avoids generalisations about the genre and subsequent possible
oversights about the generic nuances within different texts. Instead, this study posits the
texts examined here as constituted by ‘industries, audiences, and historical contexts [which
themself are fluid]’ (Mittell 2001, 7).
The benefit of this discursive approach, as indicated by Mittell, is avoidance of compiling a
‘chronology of changing textual examples’ (Mittell 2001, 11). Instead, by ‘decentring’ the
text, it is possible to study ‘genres as cultural categories’ (Mittell 2001, 12) through an
historiographical approach, where ‘changing cultural circumstances bring about generic
shifts’ (Mittell 2001, 5) and provide ‘a genealogy of discursive shifts and rearticulations to
account for a genre’s evolution and redefinition’ (Mittell 2001, 11). Yet this approach also
enables the study of those elements that do not seem to shift, through an analysis of how
generic tropes relate to ‘cultural power relations’ (Mittell 2001, 16).
Thomas Schatz’s work on film genre serves as a useful reference point here. Discussing the
dual ‘static’ and ‘dynamic’ nature of film genres, in which a genre ‘can be identified either
by its rules, components, and function (by its static deep structure) or conversely by the
individual members which comprise the species (by its dynamic surface structure)’ (Schatz
1991, 692), he observes the cultural significance of static tropes across genres. Arguing that
‘all drama establishes a community that is disturbed by conflict’, he states that ‘all film
genres treat some form of threat—violent or otherwise—to the social order’ (Schatz, 1991
697). The discursive approach deployed in this study follows this logic, where Mexican
telenovela is read not merely as a changing textual form but as a popular cultural site at
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which cultural anxieties are played out and resolved. As Schatz suggests; ‘it is a cultural
milieu where inherent thematic conflicts are animated, intensified, and resolved by familiar
characters and pattern of action’ (Schatz 1991, 695). Thus for Schatz, the stage for this
conflict is often less a product of the locale but ‘the conflict between the values, attitudes,
and actions of its principal characters’ (Schatz 1991, 697).
Following this equation, parallels can be drawn with the telenovela’s ‘tidy’ ideological
community coming under threat by morally antagonistic characters. As Schatz explains,
the characters’ identities and narrative roles (or “functions”) are determined by their
relationship with the community and its values structure. As such, the generic character is
psychologically static—he or she is the physical embodiment of an attitude, a style, a world
view, of a predetermined and essentially unchanging cultural posture. […] the generic
character is indentified by his or her function and status within the community (Schatz
1991, 696).
The corresponding Manichaeism of the Mexican telenovela’s characterisation is supported
by its drive for narrative resolution, and Schatz outlines the inherent relationship between
characterisation and narrative conclusion as the basis of those genres that act as social
rituals that ‘stop time, to portray […] culture in a stable and inevitable ideological position’
(Schatz 1991, 700). Here Schatz finds that ‘the most significant feature of any generic
narrative may be its resolution – that is, its efforts to solve […] the conflicts that have
disturbed the community welfare (Schatz 1991, 699). In a similar vein to the genre films
that Schatz references, the telenovela’s finite number of episodes which secure its ‘happy
ending’ through the reward and punishment of particular social behaviour and value sets,
also ‘project an idealized cultural self-image […] into a realm of historical timelessness’
(Schatz 1991, 702). Thus by resisting ‘the complexity and deep-seated nature of the
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conflict’ that is resolved, ‘basic communal ideals’ -- the ‘timelessness’ of which are here
recursive to a nationalist past -- ‘are ritualized’ (Schatz 1991, 701).
This is not to preclude the dynamic nature of genre that Schatz is careful to maintain, as he
explains, ‘changes in cultural attitudes, new influential genre films, the economics of the
industry, and so forth, continually refine any film genre. As such its nature is continually
evolving’ (Schatz 1991, 691). From this historiographical perspective, it is possible to
identify the telenovela genre’s evolution through time as a product of these changing
pressures. Reading the Mexican telenovela’s development from rosa to de ruptura during
the nineteen nineties follows this focus, and mirrors Schatz’s view that texts ‘produced later
in a genre’s development tend to challenge the tidy and seemingly naive resolutions of
earlier [texts]’ (Schatz 1991, 702).
However despite the value of this ‘dynamic’ approach, an historiographical study of textual
elements like setting, plot and character cannot be made without consideration of those
factors that would seem to defy these pressures, and which can in fact be read as factors
that contribute to their stasis. As Schatz explains ‘rules have been assimilated, consciously
or otherwise, through cultural consensus’ (Schatz 1991, 692-3). Here the relationship
between production and consumption practices becomes apparent, as producers work to the
logic of audience ratings, and audiences come to expect narrative conventions-- plot and
character-related--that become synonymous with the story playing out before them. As
Schatz argues, ‘as we repeatedly undergo the same type of experience we develop
expectations which, as they are continually reinforced, tend to harden into “rules” (Schatz
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1991, 691). Thus ultimately for Schatz, genre conventions represent the cooperative efforts
of production and consumption elements ‘to “tame” those beasts, both actual and
imaginary, which threaten the stability of our everyday lives’ (Schatz 1991, 698).
Following the dualistic approach endorsed by these scholars then, this thesis develops an
analytical framework that integrates an analysis of the interrelationship between text,
history, culture, nation, industry and audience, to consider not just the dynamic generic
tropes that constitute the telenovela’s dynamic textual history, but also those factors that
contribute to the maintenance of a static core. Described here as an ‘ideological ecosystem’
in which the text is a product of both production imperatives and consumption practices,
which are themself the product of a cultural imaginary, which is itself an historical product
of nationalist discourses, this analytical framework goes against ‘linear notions of cause
and effect’ (Straubhaar 2007, 8) by focusing on the interrelated and cumulative nature of
this web.
Straubhaar’s use of both ‘complexity’ and ‘structuration’ theories in his analysis of world
television provide an example of this approach within television studies. For Straubhaar,
both of these theories illustrate how ‘economic frameworks, technological bases,
institutional forms of organization and operation, genres and forms of television content,
and enduring cultural definitions and values […] form boundaries within which cultural
forces and agents, such as television producers, distributors, and viewers, operate’
(Straubhaar 2007, 8). This ‘holistic approach’ (Straubhaar 2007, 2) offers not just a means
of working ‘against linear notions of cause and effect’ but also ‘a sense of complex
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possibilities, hard to predict exactly but bounded by certain factors, such as technology and
economics, and patterned by others, such as cultural formations like genres that flow
among television systems’ (Straubhaar 2007, 8).
Acosta-Alzuru’s writing on the Venezuelan telenovela El País de las Mujeres (‘Country of
Women’) deploys a similar approach within telenovela scholarship. Writing on the ‘lack of
comprehensive [telenovela] studies that simultaneously examine two or more aspects, such
as production and reception, or text and reception’ (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 273). AcostaAlzuru highlights the importance of a ‘multi modal’ approach for textual analysis. Using a
‘circuit of culture’ model as conceived by du Gay et al (1997) she identifies how the
‘constant negotiation between the writers, those in charge of the mise-en-scene—producers,
director, actors—the audience, and the institutions that participate in the social formation’
all shape this content (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 274).
Shaped by these scholars, the analytical framework deployed in this study is both unique to
Mexican telenovela scholarship and complements the timeliness of this study. Unlike much
of the industry-generated material celebrating the Mexican telenovela’s recent fiftieth
anniversary, this framework helps to surpass a superficial celebration of those merely
anecdotal triumphs and tragedies that colour its past. Rather, it highlights the myriad
political, economic, social and cultural elements shaping the telenovela’s past and playing
out in the present. Thus beyond a merely historical documentation of shifting trends, this
framework seeks to provide a comprehensive theoretical insight into the Mexican
telenovela timeline.
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Looking into the past, it is used to engage with those unexplored elements of the
telenovela’s timeline as the post-telenovela de ruptura period, spanning the early 2000s to
the present day. Here, the downfall of Mexico’s much anticipated and touted telenovela de
ruptura ‘revolution’ is a key moment in telenovela history, for its provision of stories that
‘ruptured’ the traditional narrative schema through wildly controversial characters and
themes. Yet the consequent failure for such changes to transpire remains sorely undertheorised within Mexican telenovela literature. Whilst in interview many of the scholars
and critics who dedicated pages to espousing a new era of Mexican television have declared
their disappointment with the industry, it would seem that any rigorous scholarship on this
phenomenon has not yet appeared.
The analytical framework used here assists an exploration of the reasons behind this
demise, and helps to compensate for the dearth of literature on the Mexican telenovela
“post-ruptura”. Yet beyond a reading of the telenovela past, the multi-modal approach
utilised here does not just document the ‘blind spots’ along the Mexican telenovela’s
timeline, but also helps to envisage the state of play within the contemporary industry as
well as its possible fate in the increasingly ‘post broadcast’ future.
The importance of this approach is not only the contribution of a comprehensive analytical
tool for Mexican telenovela studies. In identifying the ways history, nation, industry,
audience and text interrelate, this research contributes to each of these individual areas of
scholarship to which this study is indebted. A brief overview of these works maps where
this study contributes to the existing literature within this field.
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Documenting the changes within the telenovela following each six-year presidential term
amongst other conduits of national sentiment and mood such as natural disasters and
financial crises Cueva (1998) is one of those scholars who have addressed the relationship
between the Mexican telenovela and the state. Elizabeth Fox emphasises the relationship
between the state and privately owned television companies in Mexico, referring to the
infamous relationship between Televisa and el PRI (Institutional Revolutionary Party) as
the ‘dominant characteristic of Mexican broadcasting’ (Fox 1997, 37). John Sinclair
deciphers the effects of this mutually beneficial relationship on telenovela production by
referring to Televisa’s ‘Mexican formula’ (Sinclair 1986). Here Sinclair suggests that
Televisa prioritised quantity over quality; pumping out formulaic fairytale narratives, which
upheld what cultural critic Mario Vargas Llosa has called ‘the perfect dictatorship’ (cited in
Krauze 2007, n.p.) of the PRI’s seventy-one year rule.
Such was the mutual benefit of this ‘Mexican formula’ that Patrick Murphy identifies the
‘shift of the locus of ideological influences from a function of the state to the domain of the
culture industries’ (Murphy 1995, 250) stating that ‘Televisa has become the unofficial and
dominant force in Mexico’s politics of culture’ (Murphy 1995, 254). Identifying the
continuing emphasis on nationalist discourses regarding race, class, gender and sexuality
within the popular cultural products created by Televisa, Murphy indicates the inherent
misnomer of what might be dubbed the ‘post-national’ context for Mexican telenovela
production.
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The vast field of scholarship on Entertainment-Education telenovelas and Pro-Social soap
operas by scholars such as Miguel Sabido, Aravind Singhal and E. M Rogers further
elucidates the connections between the culture and political industries. Developed by
Televisa under the tutelage of Sabido during the seventies, these telenovelas were aimed at
promoting social change such as increased literacy levels and family planning in Mexico.
The effects of this ‘Sabido Methodology’ were deemed highly successful, resulting in the
adoption and modification of the methodology for other populations, among them India,
Kenya and The Philippines.
Another standout work that plots the relationship between popular culture and the nation is
Yolande Le Gallo’s 1988 study Nuevas mascaras, comedia Antigua. Las representaciones
de las Mujeres en la telenovela mexicana (‘New Masks, old comedy. The representation of
women in the Mexican telenovela’). Insightful in its complex analysis of textual dynamics,
gender roles and nation-construction, Le Gallo’s study nonetheless works within the limited
scope of a structuralist-oriented effects theory. The 1993 special issue of Fem journal,
which was dedicated to women and telenovelas, provides a more measured approach to text
and representation yet does not detail this relationship nor consider the role of the nation
here.
Adriana Estill’s more recent analysis of the ‘numerous ways in which the Mexican nation
[…] appears and is constructed through the telenovela’ (Estill 2001, 171) identifies the
‘displacement of literature’s role in nation building by the mass media’ (Estill 2001, 187).
Here Estill’s work is useful for its updating to an audiovisual context the study of the nation
38 | P a g e
within Mexican cultural texts which trace the representation of women within Latin
American literature, such as Jean Franco’s Plotting Women (1989) and Doris Sommer’s
Foundational Fictions: The National Romances of Latin America (1991), This work is
particularly perceptive for its identification of why ‘[t]he representation of women and
sexuality in the Mexican telenovela must be simultaneously read as a representation of the
necessity of producing and reproducing the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172). However despite her
argument that the genre’s narrative tropes embody nationalist ideology and in turn effect a
form of citizenship for the characters, these connections are largely underexplored. In order
to account for the telenovela as more than an ideological state apparatus, there remains
much to consider within this equation.
Similarly unexplored is the careful consideration of the industry’s role in terms of
production ideologies, imperatives and practices within the telenovela’s perpetuation of
female archetypes. Most industry-oriented scholarship on the telenovela industry originates
from the English-language press, and provides brief overview of what is labelled the
telenovela ‘phenomenon’. Typically these articles first emphasise the similarities and
differences that exist between what is assumed to be lesser-known telenovela and the Anglo
soap opera, and then touch on the transnational expansion of the telenovela throughout
global television markets. Such titles as Feeling Latin Heat Telenovelas set Teutonic
Ratings Alight (Meza 2005) and Montezuma’s Revenge which looks at ‘Latin America’s
soapie revolution’ (Martínez, I 2006) show the celebration of the Mexican television
industry as a success story in the face of “Westernisation” but also indicate the
sensationalism often underlying these articles.
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Often marvelling at the telenovela’s counter flow into the US television market, these
articles provide quirky anecdotes that epitomise the telenovela’s wild popularity in such
unlikely territories as Indonesia, Russia, and Lebanon. The guns falling silent on the
Azerbaijani-Armenian front during the airing of Los Ricos Tambien Lloran (The Rich also
Cry, Televisa 1979) is a clear example (Martínez, I, 2006, 4-5). Yet these articles rarely go
beyond the novelty factor.
Consequently, the twenty-two interviews that were conducted with high profile telenovela
industry professionals in 2007 and 2008, including writers, producers and directors, as well
as scholars and critics, provide an unprecedented insight into the complex workings of the
industry. The qualitative data gained from these interviews contributes substantially to the
significance and originality of this thesis, qualifying the relationship between text and
sociocultural context for production and consumption. Yet it also serves to diversify the
methodology utilised within this study and compensates for its potential limitations
regarding the detail of textual analysis and the inclusion of local perspectives on telenovela
production and consumption practices within a historical and cultural matrix. .
Here, due to time and geographical constraints, the telenovelas surveyed are largely
abridged versions of the originals. They have been purchased in Mexico, accessed online
via the internet television sites housed within the official Televisa and TV Azteca websites,
and recorded from Mexican television over the months June-July 2005, December-January
2006-7 and January-February 2008. Although this does impose limitations on an analysis of
the daily rhythm of each narrative, as well as on the full intricacies of plot convolutions, it
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does not detract from the analysis at large. Within the versions surveyed, the Manichaean
brushstrokes that colour even the most intricate of character nuances remain clear and the
plot that is edited out is nonetheless present in the dialogue, monologue and flashbacks that
are inherent to the genre. Significantly though, it is the interviews with industry executives,
scholars and critics that provided the perfect forum for discussing the characters and plot
within these narratives, in order to clarify and consolidate the arguments developed within
this study.
Adding to the importance of the interviews is their ability to compensate for the lack of data
from audience research groups. Due to time and geographical constraints, a decision was
made very early on that audience research was beyond the scope for this research project.
This poses limitations on the ability to discuss audience reception and its influence on
telenovela narratives and industry developments through the generation of original data
specific to this study. However, it does not preclude the incorporation of “local” voices in
this study, or a consideration of the place of the audience within the Mexican telenovela
industry. In addition to the inclusion of insider perspectives from industry professionals,
these interviews help to frame the audience through the lens of commercial logic. Here, the
focus on audience consumption over reception follows the commercial imperatives within
the industry, where ratings and production voices speak on behalf of audiences.
In some ways then, the absence of audience voices here mirrors the dynamics of the
industry. This approach avoids specious accounts of audience reception and its relation to
the telenovela industry, based on limited data findings within the scope of this thesis. It also
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enables a reflection on the arbitrary nature of ratings through an analysis of the production
voices that justify the use of ratings to frame production decisions. This in turn enables the
focus to remain on the interface between telenovela industry and the Mexican cultural
matrix; for an analysis of the framework within which production decisions are made.
Furthermore, this approach also avoids becoming mired by the current stalemate within
contemporary audience reception theory. Vek Lewis confirms the apparent reluctance
within academia to explore audience reception beyond a polarised model when
acknowledging that ‘the issue of representation, these days, is infrequently addressed’ as
‘the connections between cultural productions and their reception have been so complicated
by cultural critics as to appear to be impossible to predict’ (Lewis 2008, 3). Indeed, cultural
and media studies’ current emphasis on post-structuralist theory seems to have created a
certain trepidation in re-examining the logistics of television texts as ideological tools that
might ‘affect’ certain social-cultural behaviours or beliefs. From the nineties onwards, the
dearth of published works that examine the interface between telenovela content and
audience viewing reflects this.
Consequently, without a consideration of how audiences might actively negotiate
ideological texts yet remain influenced by the ideological messages that they convey,
audience reception theory does little to move beyond the construction of viewing as either
‘semiotic guerilla warfare’ (Fiske 1989, 18) or passive reception of dominant ideology.
This thesis avoids recourse to these models of audience reception, by locating viewing
within the larger cultural context of the cultural imaginary. Indeed, whilst ‘oppositional or
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counter-hegemonic readings are always a possibility […] this cannot discount instances in
which the knowledge frameworks of dominant culture align with the viewing public’s own
available frameworks’ (Lewis 2008, 3).
This symmetry between those ‘knowledge frameworks’ circulating within the culture at
large and the available knowledge frameworks of the telenovela viewing public is
consolidated by the telenovela’s textual dynamics. The ‘privileged reading’ that knowledge
of the telenovela’s narrative frameworks provides gives audiences maximum satisfaction
for their subscription to those narrative paths which the exclusionary Manichaean
melodrama endorses. Here, audiences are rewarded for their support and vilification of
particular character types. Importantly, by focusing on the dynamics of textual engagement
within ‘privileged reading’, it is possible to decentralise the question of audience agency
from the viewing equation. This in turn helps to avoid the polarised issue of audience
reception that seems to have paralysed Mexican telenovela studies.
This commercially and textually oriented model for audience reception does not however
detract from the important connections made by some scholars regarding the influence that
telenovelas have on everyday life, including gender relations in Mexico. It is this
perspective upon which the cultural relevance of this study resides. Laura Beard, quoting
Teresa De Lauretis, comments that the telenovela is a site contributable ‘to the social
construction of gender in Latin America’ including ‘the sexual exploitation of women and
the repression or containment of female sexuality’ (de Lauretis in Beard 2003, 74). Many
Chicana feminists specify the tools for this oppression, identifying the female archetypes
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found haunting even the contemporary telenovelas. Gloria Anzaldúa stated that these
archetypes are ‘used against women and against certain races to control, regulate, and
manipulate us’ (Anzaldúa and Keating 2000, 219). Thus evident within these references is
the belief that these female archetypes, and the telenovela itself, police female identity.
Mexican feminist Jean Franco suggests that Mexican women are ‘thereby trapped by stories
that could be told about them […] Without the power to change the story or to enter into
dialogue’ (Franco 1989, xxiv).
This perspective was consolidated in interview with feminist telenovela scholar Olga
Bustos Romero who outlined the resonance of female mythification beyond the borders of
the ‘tidy nation’. Explaining the connections between the citizenship afforded women
within the Mexican telenovela and that within the nation itself, she concluded that the mass
murder of women in the Northern Mexican border city of Juárez illustrates this correlation.
Acknowledging the gravity of this association, she argued that Mexico’s femicide might be
the last link in the chain but that it is the same story; of violence against women based
around notions of appropriate and inappropriate femininity. For Bustos Romero, such
parallels are evident in the misogynist emphasis on what a woman wears; a discourse found
within both the telenovela’s female dichotomy and echoed in the popular press and police
statements surrounding the Juárez murders (2007, pers. comm., 19 Jan.). Independent film
and television director Antonio Serrano concurred, stating that ‘of course’ telenovelas
‘contribute to the mistreatment of woman, to misogyny, to the role of the macho, and [the
notion of] woman as property’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).
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Consolidating this schema, scholars studying the serial sexual femicide in Juárez refer
specifically to the archetypes of female mythification within the Mexican cultural
imaginary when trying to understand the reasons for the continued perpetration and
apparent immunity of these crimes. As Livingstone writes,
By analysing the crime scene, one can deduce that the sexualised murder suggests anger at
the increasing sexual independence of young women in Mexico. The mutilated breasts
suggest anger at women's use of their bodies for more than mothering and nurturing. The
victims are primarily working women, suggesting resentment at women's increasing
economic independence. Abandonment of their bodies in the desert like garbage reveals
that these women are considered cheap and disposable (Livingstone 2004, 71).
For these scholars, the key to the femicide in Mexico’s northern border cities is how
‘women working in the maquila industry challenge the ideal of Mexican womanhood’
which ‘holds women to an ideal of femininity symbolised by the Virgin of Guadalupe, the
virgin mother’ (Tiano and Ladino 1999, 307). Here, the breakdown of traditional female
roles, has created ‘male resentment and hostility’ (Fuentes & Ehrenreich 1983, 33) towards
women such that ‘feminist organizations in Juárez believe that a ‘macho backlash’ is
responsible for the murders’ (Livingstone 2004, 64). Sociologist Pablo Vila’s claim that
maquila workers are like prostitutes in the ‘service [of] foreign men’ (cited in Livingstone
2004, 66) qualifies these connections. Thus in opposition to the Virgin of Guadalupe, the
violence against these maquila workers resonates as a rejection of the figurative whore.
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The socio-economic changes used here to contextualise the violence in Juárez, are also
framed as conducive to social change at large. As one female politician of the current ruling
PAN party states:
In recent years, the recurrent economic crises have undermined the family structure and
seriously damaged the social thread. […] Women are undertaking social roles that
traditionally they have not been assigned, and along with this, men, women, the family and
society at large have been affected (Álvarez de Vicencio 2006, 105).
Thus whilst these considerations do not draw a direct line between the telenovela and social
violence, they demand an acknowledgement of the relationship between telenovela content
and the everyday actualities that operate within a wider cultural context. They also invite a
reflection on the potential for these changes to challenge the longevity of conventional
Mexican telenovela narrative schemas, which posit female characters as protagonists or
antagonists of traditional family life. In light of these changes, the importance of re-viewing
female citizenship within the Mexican telenovela industry is only confirmed, such that just
who is and isn’t loved within the romantic narrative takes on a particular significance.
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Chapter One
The Melodrama of
[‘Tidy’] Nation-Construction
Chapter One: The Melodrama of [‘Tidy’] Nation-Construction
‘Give me a telenovela and I’ll give you a nation.’
— Denise Bombardier
The dynamics of the telenovela love story take on epic proportions when considering the
parallels between the ideal community configured onscreen and the wider project of nationbuilding throughout Mexican history. This historical continuum effectively constitutes its
own ‘narrative’ of nation construction (Bhabha 1990) and consequently, provides the
context within which the ideological parameters of Mexican telenovela narratives can be
read. Key to this narrative of nation construction is the role of the culture industries. As the
writers Susan Hayward (2000), Enric Castellò (n.d.) and Adriana Estill (1998, 2000a, 2001)
suggest, popular audio-visual texts are key sites of promoting nationalist discourse. For
Castellò, ‘any debate about culture, identity or nation must include television which is the
most important mechanism for disseminating representations’ (Castellò n.d, 6).
Following this logic, this chapter explores the Mexican telenovela as a principal protagonist
in the historical project of nation-construction. It begins by outlining those historical tenets
of nation-construction that facilitate the telenovela’s role in this project. The dialectical
nature of these tenets posits the nation as invented/natural, individual/collective,
banal/sovereign, invisible/visible, imaginary/real and memory/amnesia. Each of these
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equations contributes to the nation as an exclusionary entity that finds an effective
proponent through national cinema (Hayward 2000), serial television melodrama (Castellò
2007, n. d.) and more specifically, the televisual melodrama of the Mexican telenovela
(Estill 1998, 2000a, 200b, 2001).
The chapter then identifies the logic of ‘woman-as-nation-construction’ within both nationbuilding and popular cultural forms (Berlant 1997, Hayward 2000) in order to explore the
exclusionary nature of nation-construction, as evident within the Mexican telenovela. This
overview is then applied to an analysis of the Mexican telenovela’s textual dynamics to
consider exactly how these popular cultural texts reproduce nationalist ideology and ensure
the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the nation. Here, the telenovela love
story becomes national allegory, as narrative tropes effect a form of ‘citizenship test’ for
the female characters to determine who is and is not conducive to the nation-construction.
The parameters of ‘ideal femininity’ are evident within an analysis of the race, class and
gender outlined here.
The chapter ends by emphasising the importance of analysing this representational schema
as a product of wider frameworks of telenovela production and consumption. This expands
the notion of the telenovela as ideological state apparatus, by signalling the multiple
reasons for the perpetuation of nationalist discourses within the ‘post-national’ context for
twenty-first century telenovela production.
Nation- [State] Building as Televisual Construction
The nation is invented/natural. As ‘an ideological movement for the attainment and
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maintenance of (the) unity and identity of a human population sharing an historic territory’
(Smith 1996a, 359) nationalism is much more than a series of unproblematic cultural rituals
and customs organically inherent to a territorial population. Whilst the apparent ‘banality’
(Billig 1995, 6) of many cultural practices might suggest innate ontological meaning, their
often-identifiable origins suggest a more constructed nature and consequently, a strategic
relationship with the maintenance of specific power interests.
Certainly, the very power interests behind the origins of nationalism can be traced to the
nation-building strategies of the nineteenth century, when newly born states asserted their
governance over colonial territories. Here ‘[B]y binding the concept of nation to state
(literally by hyphenating it)’ the state gained ‘legitimate agency’ (Hayward 2000, 89-90)
over the disparate masses of the new nation. This form of governance continues into the
present day, whether as a means of ensuring economic and political viability within the
increasingly globalised international community, or civil order within territorial borders.
Thus although ‘much of what we call nationalism is based on the idea that there is some
basis for the unit chosen, other than historical contingency or political choice’ (Taylor C.
2004, 177) closer consideration reveals those key dialectical tropes of nation building,
which secure the state’s power interests through the discourses and corresponding practices
of nationalism as practiced by the state and its citizenry.
The nation is collective/individual. Defined here as a ‘contract’ between the state and its
constituents, nationalism effects a form of ‘biopower’ (Foucault) where the individual’s
enactment of ‘national culture’s’ traditions and beliefs secures those ideologies endorsed by
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the state.5 Of particular interest here is the relationship between the everyday life of the
individual and nationalist ideology, situating the nation as banal/sovereign. This equation is
particularly powerful as the obfuscation of state power interests is maintained through
nationalism’s absorption into the population’s everyday life. Indeed, nationalist discourses
work to ‘make the practice of the state as ‘natural’ as the concept of nation’, such that ‘[i]n
the name of the nation, the state may govern’ (Hayward 2000, 89). Here the nation is
visible/invisible. Indeed, the highly visible ritualistic public practice of cultural customs
(ceremonies of ‘banal nationalism’ such as flag raising, national anthems and national
holidays) secures the ‘invisibility’ of the state, by making the highly constructed nature of
nationalism appear innately natural.
However in a continuation of this paradoxical logic, the nation is imaginary/real. In
identifying the ‘invented’ origins of these traditions (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983), it is
important not to ignore their ‘authentication’ through use. As Charles Taylor suggests,
nationalism ‘can never be adequately expressed in the form of explicit doctrines because of
its very unlimited and indefinite nature’ (Taylor, C. 2002, 107). It is both [re]-produced by
institutional order and alive in the everyday lives of the population (Taylor, C. 2002, 121).
Whilst such traditions may well have been ‘invented’, they are proven to be ‘politically
effective invention[s]’ which have been ‘interiorized and become part of the […] imaginary
of the people concerned’ (Taylor, C. 2004, 177). The role of the imaginary is then key here
5
Foucault theorises biopower as ‘that domain of life over which power has taken control’ (cited in Mbembé
2003). Here, the human body serves a set of interests, often tied to the state and associated with the successful
execution of a ‘greater public good’. In a capitalist economy this would see healthy bodies produce effective
labour, which in turn reproduces a ‘healthy’ economy. In the Mexican nation-building context, the logic of
biopower would paint the human body as a resource that produces ‘healthy’ ‘citizens’ for the national good,
often determined by the heteronormative values of patriarchal ideology.
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to understanding the construction of nation as not simply a political state-driven ‘top-down’
process but also a cultural ‘grass-roots’ process. Yet precisely because of this individual
‘ownership’ of nationalist ideology, state power is further secured.
Foregrounding ‘the need, in self-governing societies, of a high degree of cohesion’ and
‘something like a common identity’, state advocacy of nationalism capitalises on the ability
of cultural imaginings to unite a disparate population’s sense of collective identity (Taylor,
C. 1999, 265). Indeed, the role of the cultural imaginary in consolidating an imagined
national identity cannot be underestimated, as it is the marriage of nation and identity that
culture, even in its most banal form, facilitates. This ‘territorialisation of memory’ sees a
nationalist construction of history become highly personal, through ‘shared memories of
some [collective] past or pasts which can mobilise and unite its members’ (Hayward 2000,
83).
The nation is memory/amnesia. Smith outlines the basis of this equation when he explains
‘no memory, no identity; no identity, no nation’ (Smith 2004, 75) such that the creation of
collective memory is premised upon national amnesia, where ‘getting one’s own history
wrong’ through the construction of a cultural history is integral ‘for the maintenance of
national solidarity’ (Hayward 2000, 83). Key to this process of unification, collective
memory of a shared past sees the creation of a national cultural identity and it is here that
the formula for nation-state building as televisual construction comes together.
The fostering of a sense of collective belonging through the creation of a cultural imaginary
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is perfectly articulated through the audio-visual texts of popular culture. Here film and
television in particular facilitate the co-option of collective consciousness and sentiment
through their depiction of national culture identity, facilitating the currency of the
ideological parameters of the cultural imaginary. Indeed, as ‘the link — the hyphen —
between nation and state’ (Hayward 2000, 82) the audio-visual products of a national
culture industry secure these discourses within the cultural imaginary. For Hayward, ‘one
cannot underestimate the importance of visual and print media and their role in
disseminating this relationship between nation and state’ (Hayward 2000, 82).
Building on Benedict Anderson’s analysis of the mass media’s creation of a standardised
language, image and idea of the nation, which engender the processes of modern nation
construction, Hayward emphasises the power of the image in creating a cultural
‘image/nation’ (Hayward 2000, 88). So just as print capitalism ‘made it possible for rapidly
growing numbers of people to think about themselves, and to relate themselves to others, in
profoundly new ways’ (Anderson 1983, 36) so too do the audio-visual cultural products in
modern times. Many scholars have explored this paradigm within different cultural
contexts, observing both the use of cultural texts by authoritarian regimes of governance, as
well as their use by populations seeking independent governance within established
national territories. Of these texts, Castellò’s work on television fiction — in particular
fictional television serials such as the telenovela — and nation-building is one of the most
significant (Castellò 2007, n.d.).
Asserting that ‘[a]ll nations need their own television, and all nations need a fiction to
picture itself as a nation’ (Castellò n.d, 4) Castellò argues that fiction has served as a
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national “promotion tool” within many national-building contexts (Castellò n.d, 6).
Identifying national referents such as architecture and landscapes, art and literature, history
and folklore, gastronomy and sport, flags and anthems, as well as brands and religion,
Castellò locates the many ways in which the Catalán nation appears and is constructed
through serialised television fiction in Spain. Following this logic, the Mexican telenovela
constitutes an ‘ideal’ version of the nation ‘in which the imagined community rallies
around specific images of itself’ (Lopez 1995, 262). It constructs the ‘image/nation’
(Hayward 2000, 88) through its ‘semiotic field of images that represent the nation
metaphorically or metonymically’ (Estill 2001, 172). Here the nation appears through
iconographic symbols of lo mexicano (‘The Mexican’) such as tequila, the Mariachi and the
Virgin of Guadalupe. Other obvious ways in which the nation is framed is through onlocation filming. Telenovela titles such as Acapulco, Cuerpo y Alma (‘Acapulco, Body and
Soul’, Televisa 1995) are testament to the appearance of the Mexican nation within the
telenovela.
Further to the nation’s construction within serialised television fiction is its popularity and
pervasiveness. The daily programming and often domestic scenarios they entail provide a
perfect accompaniment to the rhythms of everyday life, and it is this ‘banality’ of both form
and content that equates serial television fiction with those ‘banal nationalisms’ performed
in everyday rituals and routines. Furthermore, the intimate place of television in the privacy
of the home, and its purported reflection of the national space and its people in the practice
of living their everyday lives emphasises the apparent divorce between cultural products
and the state; indeed, what would such ‘banality’ have to do with the state?
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Yet it is this very ordinariness that makes fictional television serials like the telenovela, the
perfect contemporary vehicle for nation-building narratives within the twenty-first century.
With an estimated telenovela viewing public of between sixty and eighty percent (Estill
2001, 179) and the back-to-back telenovela programming from Monday to Friday across
the main free to air television channels, the telenovela constitutes a ‘space for [the] iteration
and interpellation required to produce the […] nation [as] an intelligible, cohesive whole’
(Estill 2001, 169). Its pervasiveness and popularity provide ‘the perfect means for
synthesizing diverse regional identities into an intelligible, cohesive whole’ (Estill 2001,
169).
From these complex workings of the nation, it is possible to locate the Mexican telenovela
not just as popular cultural text but also as a popular national cultural text, and thus as both
a product and producer of the cultural imaginary’s ideological parameters. Here, the sheer
popularity of the telenovela is integral to its role in perpetuating nationalist ideology within
the cultural imaginary, and consequently the perpetuation of the historical project of nationconstruction within the twenty-first century. Thus beyond being an innocuous celebration
of national images, the telenovela-as-nation-construction reflects more profoundly the
exclusionary nature of this historical project.
With difference as ‘the very thing that nationalisms seek to deny’ (Hayward 2000, 87) the
type of nation traditionally endorsed by the state has been notable for its exclusionary
endorsement of particular race, class, gender and sexuality within the national space. Yet
beyond legislation that discriminates against such differences, another key means of
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securing particular social practices is investment in those smaller components of society.
As a paternalistic framework through which the state assumes familial relationship with its
citizens, the family unit has become one of the key components of its popular
‘infrastructure’. Here endorsement of the nuclear family unit serves to monitor aberrant
behaviours that were deemed threatening to its ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001,
172).
However the ‘standardisation’ of national cultural identity that this endorses is not just a
product of the state, but also its constituents. Consolidating ‘some notion of a moral or
metaphysical order, in the context of which the norms and ideals make sense’ (Taylor C.
2004, 25) the cultural imaginary governs social structures through the creation of this
ideological framework. Here the nation is imaginary/real as the ongoing ‘weight’ of the
imaginary creates ‘deeper normative notions and images’ (Taylor C. 2004, 23). With
morality a vehicle for exclusionary discourses, national culture can effectively alienate and
repress those individuals or groups that might threaten both the state’s power and the moral
sensibilities of its constituents. Consequently within this equation, imaginings may be as
potent as official forms of regulation. For just as the state regulates against diversity in
order to ‘represent the nation as one’ (Hayward 2000, 86) the national cultural imaginary
perpetuates these exclusionary discourses.
Considering the telenovela’s role in perpetuating national cultural identity, which is itself a
reflection of nationalist discourses, it only follows that this popular cultural text conveys
exclusionary discourses oriented towards constructing an ‘ideal imagined’ nation. Indeed,
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what exactly constitutes the ‘official’ version of the nation and its people need no longer be
ordained by the state. These inherently exclusionary nationalist discourses take on a life of
their own within the telenovela, becoming embroidered not only into the logic of the
cultural imaginary and its daily ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) onscreen,
but also into the fabric of the telenovela form itself.
Within the telenovela’s fictional world, ‘the nation becomes the stage, the place where the
story happens; […] an ‘imagined place’ where people lead their lives in a normalized way
within what is considered to be the national culture’ (Castellò n.d, 15). Consequently, a
close reading of the telenovela narrative is necessary to reveal the ways in which the ideal
version of the nation and its constituents appear within the plots twists and turns. Following
Castellò’s logic in asking ‘Why is the plot as it is?’ (Castellò n.d., 5), ‘what kind of
ideological narration do the plots provide?’, ‘What are the main arguments?’ and ‘What
society does the fiction represent’ (Castellò n.d., 11) it is possible to consider those
characteristics of nation-building, which secure the Mexican telenovela’s nationalist
discourses within the contemporary context.
Finding ‘the Nation’ within the ‘National Melodrama’
The nation is televisual. There are several unique narrative tropes that assist the Mexican
telenovela’s exclusionary nation-construction, and thereby reveals how the Mexican nation
both ‘appears and is constructed through the telenovela’ (Estill 2001, 171). Adriana Estill
provides important insight into these dynamics by identifying those aspects of the narrative
form that contribute to the ‘rebirth of the [Mexican] nation […] at this micro level’ (Estill
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2001, 179). For Estill, the closed onscreen community is inherently symbolic of the ‘ideal
imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) due to its limited number of characters and sets. This
is facilitated by the telenovela’s ‘repetitive and melodramatic structure’, which ‘seems to be
tailor-made for nation-construction’ (Estill 2001, 187).
Repetition and melodrama serve to construct the ideal national community onscreen in two
key ways. Whilst melodrama is synonymous with the telenovela genre, scholars such as
Ana M. Lopez have noted the Mexican telenovela’s ‘extraordinarily Manichean vision of
the world’ (Lopez 1995, 261). Importantly here, the characters that inhabit the narrative are
essentialised characterisations of good and evil, further facilitating the symbolic function of
this figurative national space. Indeed, each character’s affiliation with a specific ideological
stance assists the construction of the ‘tidy nation’ as the battle between good and evil that
ensues ‘create[s] at every turn a portrait of what the nation should be’ (Estill 2001, 179).
The role of repetition is important here, as it reiterates those ideologies and behaviours
conducive to the construction of an ideal national space.
Finally, this ideological/behavioural schema is consolidated upon the fixed narrative ending
that is inherent to the telenovela form. This relationship between form and content is
emphasised upon comparison with Anglo soaps. Where soap operas can run for decades,
telenovelas invest in narrative closure. With runs lasting anywhere between two months
and two years, the conclusion informs the entire narrative trajectory. Indeed, after myriad
narrative twists and turns, the ultimate drive for moral justice, best establishes the
relationship between ‘tidy’ narrative structure and a ‘tidy’ version of the nation (Estill
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2001, 172). Here, ‘the telenovela’s impulse toward final and total closure’ (Estill 2001,
172) creates the need for a Manichaean schema from which ‘a permanent, stable world’ can
be built (Estill 2001, 174). The inexorable ‘tidiness’ of the narrative thereby informs the
essentialised nature of characterisation, with each individual rewarded or punished
accordingly.
Following the logic of what Estill calls the telenovela as ‘tidy nation’ (1998, 2000a, 2001),
characterisation speaks to the ideological parameters of nation-construction. As occupants
of an ultimately ‘tidy’ version of the Mexican nation, the members of the telenovela
community take on wider significance beyond their fictional borders; as ‘ideal imagined’
citizens of and ‘ideal imagined’ nation. Here, the narrative tropes determining
characterisation and narrative trajectory take on an ideologically charged significance, such
that the Manichaean melodramatic battle between good and evil, the corresponding schema
of reward and punishment, and the ensuing ‘tidy’ version of the nation and citizenship that
it constructs, all serve to police exactly who is and is not allowed to remain within the
‘ideal imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) configured upon narrative conclusion.
Thus exactly who is and is not allowed to remain within this ‘tidy nation’ takes on
historical, political and cultural importance and reveals those elements of telenovela-asnation-construction that are missing within Estill’s work. To begin, a close exploration of
the constitution and trajectory of telenovela characters is necessary to reveal the ideological
parameters linking the historical project of nation-construction to serialised television
melodrama. The beginnings of such an analysis can be found within Estill’s work, as she
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argues that ‘[T]he representation of women and sexuality in the Mexican telenovela must
be simultaneously read as a representation of the necessity of producing and reproducing
the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172). Citing ‘the idea that women all have the potential to betray
their men, sexually, verbally, and morally by not living up to the mother/virgin image that
is constantly idealized’ (Estill 2001, 186) Estill identifies this historical paradigm at the
root of woman-as-nation-construction within the Mexican telenovela.
However, exactly how the Mexican telenovela’s female characters embody nationalist
configurations of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ existence for the nation’s female
citizens remains unexplored. The following section uses the theories of Lauren Berlant and
Susan Hayward to clarify this relationship between woman and nation within popular
cultural texts. As such, precisely how telenovela form constructs the ‘tidy nation’ through
the female characters becomes evident.
Finding Female Citizenship within the Mexican Telenovela
‘The nation appears […] where the plot unfolds, the place where the characters live’
Enric Castellò
The relationship between woman and nation has been explored in several interesting
academic texts. (Yuval-Davis 1997, Collins 1998, Kaplan et al. 1999) Jean Franco, Plotting
Women (1989) traces the representation of women within Latin American narratives as
simultaneously a representation of the nation, as does Kristin Pitt’s work on National
Bodies: Woman as Nation in Latin American Narrative (2005) and Doris Sommer’s study
Foundational Fictions: The National Romances of Latin America (1991). Yet constructed
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within literary analysis, they do not consider the importance of audio-visual representations
of the Mexican ‘image/nation’. Consequently, the work of Lauren Berlant (1997) and Susan
Hayward (2000) is most important here for understanding how female citizenship is
constructed within and through popular audio-visual cultural texts.
In her 1997 study on Sex and Citizenship, Berlant observes that ‘the contemporary ideal of
citizenship is measured by personal and private acts and values rather than civic acts’
(Anon. 1997, n.p.). This follows the ‘shift from a state-based and thus political
identification with nationality to a culture-based concept of the nation as a site of integrated
social membership’ (Berlant 1997, 3). Although basing her ‘archive’ on ‘the scene of
normativity’ (Berlant 1997, 20) within the Reaganite era of United States politics, Berlant’s
work is highly relevant to the Mexican context.
Exploring the ways in which these exclusionary discourses regarding what are the ‘right’
and ‘wrong’ 'private and personal acts’ have taken hold through the culture industries,
including the ‘expansion of a mass-mediated space of opinion formation’ (3),6 Berlant
speaks to the role of the telenovela-as-nation-construction. Her critique of ‘the marketing of
nostalgic images of a normal, familial American that would define the utopian context for
citizen aspiration’ (Berlant 1997, 3) runs parallel with the telenovela as a proponent of
exclusionary nationalist discourse. Indeed, within these mass media images, in which only
6
Although Berlant looks at more than the mass media (observing other forms of ‘ordinariness’ such as the
law) she observes the integral role of television in this ‘privatization’ of citizenship within the United States.
As one of those ‘technologies of citizenship’ (Berlant 1997, 31) Berlant asserts ‘television’s role in
constructing the hegemony [of] the normative nation’. (Berlant 1997, 35) Acknowledging Benedict
Anderson’s identification of ‘the simultaneity effect of paper and electronic media, whose consumption is said
to produce a general sensation of constant collective citizenship’ (Berlant 1997, 34) Berlant’s ‘archive’
highlights the importance of the telenovela as an ‘everyday communication in the national public sphere’
which assists in ‘the construction, experience, and rhetoric of quotidian citizenship’ (Berlant 1997, 12).
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‘particular kinds of national life’ are made ‘iconic’ (Berlant 1997, 11), the de-politicisation
of conservative cultural politics occurs. This in turn resembles the nation-building tenet of
memory/amnesia, as confirmed with Berlant’s identification of ‘paramnesias’ as a process
by which images ‘organize consciousness, not by way of explicit propaganda, but by
replacing and simplifying memories people actually have […] [to] political feelings that
link them to other citizens and to patriotism’ (Berlant 1997, 57).
For Berlant, this newfound ‘intimacy’ of the public sphere is problematic in its surreptitious
policing of the private and personal acts of the nation’s citizens. Indeed, ‘paramnesias’
make obsolete the ‘ethical questions about the privileges only some citizens enjoy’ (Berlant
1997, 57) including ‘the historically stereotyped citizen—people of color, women, gays,
and lesbians’ (Berlant 1997, 2). Here, ‘the consequences of a shrinking and privatized
concept of citizenship on increasing class, racial, sexual and gender animosity’ remain
‘hidden’ amongst the workings of cultural texts (Anon. 1997, n. p.). However, it is the
relationship that Berlant posits between sex and citizenship that provides the most profound
insight.
By outlining the dynamics of the US ‘national culture industry that emphasizes sexuality as
the fundamental index of a person’s political legitimacy’ (Berlant 1997, 58) Berlant
provides insight into the logic of the Mexican telenovela’s emphasis on female sexuality
and the family unit as tenets of ‘tidy nation’ construction. For Berlant, the ‘reliance on
maternity to secure properly familial norms of intimacy and continuity’ (Berlant 1997, 84)
is a means of securing the nation’s future. This project is particularly pertinent when ‘the
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modal form of the citizen is called into being, when it is no longer a straight, white,
reproductively inclined heterosexual but rather might be anything’ (Berlant 1997, 18).
This endorsement of the family as integral to the nation’s future mirrors the Mexican
telenovela’s investment in marriage, maternity and the family unit as the ultimate ‘happy
ending’. Indeed, the exclusionary portrayal of citizenship as ‘something scarce and sacred,
private and proper, and only for members of families’ (Berlant 1997, 3) follows ‘the
regulation of ‘“perversion” on behalf of a heterofamilial citizenship norm’ (Berlant 1997,
18). Thus, the type of women awarded and denied citizenship within the ‘tidy nation’
indicates how those ‘threatening practices of nonfamilial sexuality’ (Berlant 1997, 7) can
become quarantined and ultimately removed from the figurative national space. This serves
as a form of national security, upon which its moral economy depends.
Susan Hayward provides a more nuanced analysis of how female sexuality secures nationconstruction when she delineates how ‘woman’s body is closely aligned/identified with
nationalist discourses’ (Hayward 2000, 89). Within this schema,
violated motherland= violated woman
invasion by the enemy= rape of the mother-land/woman
rape=occupation of the mother-body by the enemy
occupation=reproduction of the enemy within the mother-body (Hayward 2000, 90).
In all of these equations, ‘the female body by extension becomes the site of life and death
of a nation, the rise and fall of a nation’ (Hayward 2000, 90). As such, ‘the symbolic value
of the female body […] [is] a means of playing out national insecurities’ such as invasion,
colonisation, as well as miscegenation and population decline (Hayward 2000, 91). It is in
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particular this latter anxiety that posits the maternal body as a nation-building tool, yet this
does not counter the importance of ‘purity’ to the mother-body’s reproduction of the nation.
Accordingly, the type of maternity endorsed must operate within the bounds of
‘appropriate’ female sexuality, as a mother whose sexuality is exercised outside of the
respected institutions of virginity and marriage may compromise the moral economy of the
nation’s population.
Once again then, female sexuality is the linchpin of national security, suggesting not only
the importance of marriage and maternity to the national narrative, but also the
‘appropriate’ execution of these practices. Indeed, as key sites for monitoring ‘appropriate’
and ‘inappropriate’ forms of female sexuality, participating in the social institutions of
marriage, maternity and the family unit are not enough. Virginity is essential to ensuring
this morality is intact. Yet sugar-coating this equation is love. In all its splendour, love is
the key ingredient that binds this narrative as a cohesive whole to determine whether the
execution of these institutions is sufficiently ‘tidy’.
An understanding of exactly how these nation-building ingredients combine within the
romantic narrative necessitates an analysis of the textual dynamics of the Mexican
telenovela. The following section elucidates the ways in which this woman-as-nationbuilding narrative is itself constructed, via the embroidery of exclusionary nationalist
ideologies into the tapestry of telenovela characterisation and plot. To highlight the primacy
of female sexuality within this equation, the section begins by exploring the female
dichotomy of good versus evil through the lens of race and class representations. This
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serves to establish female sexuality as the ultimate determinant of a woman’s place within
the ‘tidy nation’.
Love as National Allegory; the Personal is Political
Hernán Vera explains that the Mexican telenovela format ‘is ideal’ for profiling ‘the model
of the ideal woman’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January). However, at first glance, what
differentiates the protagonist from the antagonist is not apparent. Certainly it is not her
physical attributes. Both the protagonist and the antagonist are strikingly beautiful. Clearly
indicating one branch of ‘tidy nation’ construction through exclusionary representational
schemas, the beauty of both of these characters subscribes to the racial hierarchies that
inform female aesthetics within Mexican society.
Yeidy Rivero identifies this narrative trope in her analysis of “Ugliness” in Yo Soy Betty la
fea’ (I am Betty: The Ugly Girl). Arguing that ‘race’ and ‘Eurocentric ideologies of
“beauty” inform the ways in which female aesthetics have been socially constructed in […]
Latin America’ (Rivero 2003, 68), she asserts that ‘whiteness’ is commonly framed as ‘the
epitome of purity and elegance for the female body’ (Rivero 2003, 67). This is evident
within Mexican television. With its ‘predominance of blond models and anchorpersons’ as
well as its ‘indigenous subjects defined through European perspectives’ Mexican television
‘acts as the purveyor of “subliminal racism”’ within this predominantly ‘mestizo and
indigenous country’ (Monsiváis 1987, 132).
Winders et. al. (2005) contextualise this within a postcolonial perspective, in their study on
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whiteness in late-night Mexican television. Suggesting that the ‘desire for whiter skin’
promoted within late-night infomercials for skin whitening cream ‘signals the traces of a
colonial past and present in Mexico’ (Winders et. al. 2005, 72) they argue that they the
‘ever-present connections between darkness and poverty’ (Winders et. al. 2005, 78)
‘permeate[s] contemporary representations as well’ (Winders et. al. 2005, 81). Indeed,
despite the purported racial equality of the mestizo (person of mixed race) that accompanied
the Independence movement in Latin America (1807-1824) colonial ideologies of
blanqueamiento (‘whitening’) continue in many Latin American contexts. As Yeidy Rivero
explains, ‘while the ideology of cultural and racial mestizaje posits a racially equal and
culturally hybrid national space, hierarchies exist which define the nation’s citizens based
on the axes of “race” and class’ (Rivero 2003, 68).
Mexican telenovela fiction reflects this exclusionary racial ideology, as confirmed in
Glascock and Ruggiero’s 2004 study on ‘Spanish language television in the United States’
(of which the Mexican telenovela constitutes a considerable proportion). They found that
‘lighter skin characters, with typically lighter color hair, were more frequently represented
overall and in major roles’ (Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 399). Similarly, they ‘were more
fit and younger, more likely to be married and had a higher class status than their darker
skin counterparts’ (Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 399). Suggesting that ‘lighter is better’
(Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 399) within this programming, socioeconomic status is
invariably bound up in race hierarchies such that ‘skin color typically dictates one’s social
class, with dark skin characters relegated to servile roles and stars more frequently light
skinned and blonde’ (Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 392). Following these exclusionary
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dynamics, neither skin colour nor features determines that which differentiates the
protagonist from the antagonist. Regardless of their inherent ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’, all
female characters that occupy the central frame are ‘white’ and subscribe to the dominant
Eurocentric norms surrounding beauty.
Evidently class plays an important role in differentiating telenovela women. However this
process is more complicated than the open rejection of a lower class habitus through the
equation of ‘darkness’ with poverty. Following the Pygmalion nature of the typical
Cinderella narrative, the upper class habitus of the protagonist is vital for her successful
narrative trajectory. In these narratives, which posit love and marriage as a source of class
ascension for the female protagonist, lower class origins are merely the beginning point for
an ultimately happy ending among the upper echelons of society. Yet despite this apparent
rejection of poverty, the protagonist’s wealth is only secured after her humble origins have
endeared her to many.
Here telenovela ideology attempts to imbue the lower class characters with a humanity that
often eludes their wealthier counterparts. As Cynthia Duncan explains, ‘working class
heroes and heroines often prove themselves to be morally superior to those who are better
off financially, and they sometimes redeem or reform the well-to-do by teaching them to
appreciate the non-material joys of life’ (Duncan 1995, 83). Álvaro Cueva maps this moral
superiority within the Mexican telenovela, stating that;
the message is clear, it is bad to be rich, it is good to be poor. […] In this genre, the most
dysfunctional families are wealthy, […] the weakest men are those within the halls of
power, […] the most educated people are those most removed from their roots […] and the
women, the bigger the cheque-book, the more promiscuous (Cueva 2001, 19).
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Thus, despite the inevitable ‘whiteness’ of both the protagonist and the antagonist, a key
component of their differentiation is often based upon class origins yet following these
class parameters; it is not merely wealth vs. poverty, but rather the purported value(s) of
poverty that is endorsed. Estill proposes that such configurations purposefully invest ‘a
great proportion of the Mexican population with moral and social power, in order to
compensate them for not having financial power’ (Estill 2001, 180-1). Yet regardless of its
logic ‘poverty is to goodness as wealth is to evil’ (Vela 2004, 2). In fact, the antagonist’s
inevitable downfall is often caused by her arrogance and sense of superiority.
Consequently, the protagonist is all the more beautiful for her humility and compassion,
which prove irresistible to the telenovela galán. For it is this love story that most indicates
the ‘connection of the national epic with private dramas’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 279).
Indeed, as the logic through which nationalist notions of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’
values and behaviour are embroidered within the narrative, love determines ‘good’ versus
‘evil’ femininity within the Mexican telenovela-as-nation-construction.
Within the telenovela love story, the characters and narrative developments take on deeper
significance than the melodramatic undulations of romance. According to this schema, the
characterisation of the female protagonist and antagonist reveals not only what attracts the
telenovela galán, but the ideology that is endorsed within ‘tidy nation’ construction. Those
traits distinguishing the female protagonist from the female antagonist, her defeated foe in
the battle for the galán’s love, become the key ingredients of the ‘model of the ideal
[Mexican] woman’ as outlined by Hernán Vera;
Logic follows; Woman exists to have children. In order to have children she must have a
husband. To have a husband she must be a virgin. […] She is a good hearted woman
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because a mother cannot be ‘bad hearted’, even if she is humiliated, even if she is beaten,
even if she is raped […] as a human being her female condition is to endure. She is
designed to mother the precious children of a triumphant father (2007, pers. comm., 22
January).
It is not hard to read the national allegory within this equation, where the ultimately
triumphant father of telenovela galán is the nation, the precious children are those citizens
that secure its future, and woman is the means through which the nation’s future is secured.
However, the characteristics that constitute this ideal woman’s civil status and ‘nature’ are
specified within this equation. Consequently, there are two types of woman within the
nation-building equation; one conducive to nation-construction and another that threatens
this project. The narrative trajectory of these characters secures this equation, as the two
types of women are pitted against each other in a symbolic ritual of ‘survival of the fittest’.
However, considering their allegorical function, there is no doubt who will triumph in this
‘natural’ selection.
For although both the good and bad women can bear his progeny, only the good woman
can secure the moral economy of the appropriately ‘tidy’ nation. In contrast, the bad
woman is ‘tainted by the reality or the insinuation of unfeminine ambitions, whether sexual,
financial, or moral.’ (Estill 2000a, 86) It is no surprise then that the good woman is chosen
for this nation construction because what makes her good is not only her execution of the
tidy-nation-building values of virginity, marriage and motherhood but also her belief in
them. They are her priority and nothing in her heart or mind challenges this schema. Her
‘appropriate femininity’ posits that her virginity [purity], good-heartedness, submission and
endurance are suitable for marriage to the galán (nation) and the production of his children
[the reproduction of the nation]. Accordingly, she becomes the protagonist of the nation69 | P a g e
building narrative.
The protagonist’s foe does not believe in the same things. Although she may seek to marry
and procreate, she is not motivated by ‘good’ intentions. In fact, her pursuit of the
telenovela galán is motivated by jealousy and lust, as she is desperate to appropriate his
affections from the protagonist for her own means. Thus ‘inappropriate’ behaviour
accompanies her ‘inappropriate’ values. She attempts to seduce the hero and to sully the
protagonist’s good name. She stops at nothing, deploying all manner of manipulations to
achieve her desires. Such power-lust threatens national security, as Laura Sanchez explains:
‘If you have a mother that doesn’t protect her children […] who damages them, well, she’s
not a good mother. She is a witch’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). It is this ‘inappropriate
femininity’ that poses a threat to the family unit/nation and thereby secures her role as the
antagonist.
Within this schema of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity, notions of ‘appropriate’
and ‘inappropriate’ sexuality distinguish the protagonist from the antagonist. Here the
protagonist’s ‘appropriate’ sexuality can secure the moral economy and sustainability of the
‘tidy nation’ through her reproduction of the family unit. The antagonist’s deployment of
sex for purposes other than those legitimised by the institutions of marriage and maternity
constitute her threat to this nation. However, although it is the galán’s role to determine
which traits of femininity are deemed ‘appropriate’ for the ‘tidy nation’s’ construction, his
status as a virile man who is prone to seduction means that higher forces are required.
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In order to secure the moral economy of the ‘tidy nation’, love comes into play. It cuts
through both those infidelities of the galán and the deceptive manipulations of the
antagonist that constitute the plot’s twists and turns. Indeed within love’s ambit, the
protagonist and galán are destined to reunite despite the numerous obstacles to their union.
Consequently, love effects a form of ‘citizenship test’, which the antagonist can never pass.
She may be adept at feigning a desire for marriage and maternity to the galán, but true love
eludes her. The galán may be seduced by the antagonist’s ‘inappropriate’ sexuality, but he
could never love such a puerile woman or choose her for his wife and the mother of his
children. She is the unloved woman and as such, she will never end in the galán’s embrace.
Here the antagonist is proof incarnate that ‘not every woman in the Mexican telenovela has
the right to be loved’ (Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Indeed, according to
Sanchez, ‘A woman who has sinned because she has not remained pure, who has been with
other men, does not deserve love, true love at the end, because she has behaved badly’
(Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).
Unlike the power hungry obsession of the antagonist, the protagonist’s undying love for the
galán triumphs against all odds, and secures her place in his arms. The galán’s only
recourse is to love such a pure woman, eternally devoted to his well-being. The narrative
conclusion secures the fate of these women within the ‘tidy nation’. Where love’s triumph
sees the ultimate reward of marriage and maternity to the protagonist for her ‘appropriate’
execution of the tenets of tidy-nation-construction, its denial of the antagonist leads to her
ultimate punishment. Both fates are integral to the ‘happy ending’s’ moral justice.
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Consequently, the protagonist’s ending is merely the beginning of ‘happily ever after’. In
the final frames she is always seen celebrating victory with her beloved, the telenovela
galán (Cueva 2001, 57). The white church wedding has traditionally been the final image in
the protagonist’s trajectory, with ‘the close relationship between love and, moral status and
marriage, considered to be the realization of happiness’ (Le Gallo 1988, 201). Although the
protagonist may have already married her male counterpart in a civil service, earlier on in
the narrative trajectory, the church wedding is a religious consecration of the love they have
battled so long to realise. As the ‘unloved’ woman, the antagonist remains alone. She is
punished for her transgression of the laws of the ‘tidy nation’ through death, disfigurement,
incarceration, madness, and other variations of the ‘exile’ narrative.
The happy ending’s reward or denial of love equates to the reward or denial of citizenship
within the ‘tidy nation’ configured upon narrative conclusion. Here, permanent residency
equates to citizenship, as the protagonist’s future within the telenovela community is
secured through her marriage to the galán and the mothering of his children. She is
guaranteed citizenship by his side, with his status as the la patria (the fatherland) rewarding
her patriotic behaviour. In contrast the antagonist is punished for her selfish denial of the
nation and its values. Consequently, those characters remaining within the borders of the
‘tidy nation’ by telenovela conclusion, are those identities proffered as ideal, endorsed by
the camera’s gaze, deemed worthy of the audience’s attention, and the determining focus of
the story. Those exiled are a warning of the dangers of transgression.
This narration of national epic as personal melodrama posits the ‘loved’ are those good and
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ultimately triumphant women who represent ideal citizenship within the ‘ideal community.’
The ‘unloved’ are those bad women who are eventually ‘exiled’ from the community.
Based upon notions of ‘appropriate’ femininity- construed through values and behaviour
that culminate in a woman’s execution of ‘appropriate’ sexuality- the telenovela love story
becomes the means through which the ‘tidy’ version of the nation is ‘produced’ and
‘reproduced’. Evidently, the concept that ‘love conquers all’ garners greater resonance
when those women battling for the hero’s love are framed as citizens of the ‘tidy nation’.
The Power of Love: Problematising the ‘Tidy Nation’ and its
Enduring Popularity
‘At any given moment actors and writers come out swinging for the fact that Latin American
telenovelas promote positive values and it simply isn’t true’
Álvaro Cueva
Telenovela critics and scholars have attested to the importance of identifying the ‘negative’
values and ‘effects’ of the telenovela love story, which acts as a seductive ‘trojan horse’
with ‘real effects’ (Cueva 2001, 139). Nowhere is the power of love more evident than with
the 1965 telenovela Maximiliano y Carlota, which narrates the love story of Austrian
emperor Maximilian of Hapsburg and his wife Carlota Amalia. As telenovela protagonists,
this telenovela narrated ‘their short and turbulent empire and their tragic end in the context
of the French intervention in Mexico (1862-1867)’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52).
Following historical accuracy, Benito Juárez — the celebrated first Indigenous president of
Mexico who was responsible for the restoration of the republic after the French invasion of
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Mexico — was portrayed ordering the execution of the archduke. Yet ‘official’ versions of
history were no match for the telenovela love story. Benito Juárez, hero of Mexico against
the imperialist forces, became the evil villain to these ‘innocent victims of destiny’
(Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52).
In order to counter this negative portrayal of a Mexican president as ‘the one to blame for
the separation of the aristocratic lovers’, the then secretary of State ‘demanded changes be
made to the script in order to restore Juárez’s image’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52). It was
however, too late. Audiences had already been ‘seduced’ by the plight of the ‘beautiful but
naïve European prince and princess whose only flaw was to love each other in a land of
indians’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52). Damage control meant the telenovela was
terminated twenty-nine episodes shy of its schedule. In 1967 a follow-up entitled La
Tormenta (‘The Storm’) was made. Focusing on the life-long achievements of Benito
Juárez, La Tormenta ‘recovered the respectable image of President Juárez as a relevant
national hero’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52).
For some telenovela scholars and critics, telenovela love is a ruse, ‘no more than an
“attractive” cover for normative duties that are dictated by the institution of marriagefamily’ (Le Gallo 1988, 249-50). For Le Gallo, it is the persistence of those ‘moral’ values
that indicate ‘correct behaviour for women, independently of time or place’ (Le Gallo 1988,
230) and which are tied to the moralistic rhetoric of the Catholic Church, that hide behind
‘the myth of love’ (Le Gallo 1988, 256). Here, love becomes the tool through which gender
norms are regulated within Mexican society as its ‘“magical power” deceptively hides the
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primarily socialised aspect of this love’ (Le Gallo 1988, 249). Within this schema, woman
is encouraged to ‘surrender herself in service of patriarchal order’ (Le Gallo 1988, 256)
such that ‘the only means of realization is recognition by man’ (Le Gallo 1988, 250).
The alleged ‘effectiveness’ of this schema is cause for concern for many feminist scholars.
A recent example of this discourse can be seen with the commentary surrounding Fuego en
la Sangre (‘Fire in the Blood’ Televisa 2008), which scored high audience ratings from its
first week of transmission, that it became Mexico’s most successful telenovela beginning of
all time (Cueva 2008). This was only cause for further concern for its many detractors.
Although a remake of the Colombian telenovelas Las Aguas Mansas (‘Still Waters’ 1994)
and Pasión de Gavilanes (‘Sparrowhawks’ Passion’ 2003) Fuego en la Sangre is deeply
invested with nationally specific iconography. Set on a picturesque ranch out of reach of
mobile phone coverage, and replete with charros (cowboys) on horseback, mariachi and the
Virgin of Guadalupe, Fuego en la Sangre might be set in the colonial period. Despite its
contemporary setting, the characters seem transcribed from the colonial period, with their
traditional dress and simple ways. They are often dressed in long skirts and high collars that
are reminiscent of turn of the twentieth century fashions. Indeed, despite Vicente
Fernández’s iconographic voice in the theme song of the opening credits imploring ‘let’s
forget the past and live the present’, Fuego en la Sangre pays homage to a particularly
nostalgic version of the ‘ideal imagined’ Mexico, that predates the modern day. Reflecting
a time when ‘men were men’ and ‘women were women’ (Cueva 2008, n.p) the gender
configurations constructed onscreen are particularly conservative.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 1 – The three Elizondo sisters
& the three Reyes brothers
Figure 2- The three Reyes brothers as charros
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 3- Sophia Elizondo in
conservative dress
Figure 4- Sophia & Juan Reyes in traditional
regalia
Narrating the story of the three Reyes brothers, the telenovela follows their attempts to woo
the three Elizondo sisters in order to seek revenge for their own sister’s murder, who they
believe died at the hands of the Elizondos’ father. Yet soon this story of revenge becomes
tempered by the growing love that each of these brothers feels for their chosen Elizondo
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sister. It is a prescriptive narrative yet telenovela critics were aghast by the popularity of
this series. In one much publicised spat, Argos Productions head Epigmenio Ibarra
critiqued the ratings success of the archaic ‘charro’ drama as evidence of Mexico’s
‘conservative television tradition’ (La Crónica de Hoy 20008, 2). Yet for one collective of
NGOs, more than a quaint homage to a bygone era, they deemed Fuego en la Sangre’s
gender representations highly problematic. They promptly denounced the program for its
apparent sanction of violence against women.
According to the Consejo Ciudadano por la Equidad de Género en los Medios de
Comunicación (‘Citizens’ Council for Gender Equity in The Media’), ‘each episode […]
contains on average 50 scenes of violence against women’ (Minerva 2008, 34). Over the
ten episodes that they studied, a total of 498 scenes were identified ‘in which diverse forms
of violence against women were carried out and justified’ (Minerva 2008, 34). According
to the study, ‘of these 498 scenes 313 recreated psycho-emotional violence, 66 physical
violence, 17 actions with the objective of killing women and five sexual violence’ (Minerva
2008, 35). In this way, as one representative of the Mexican Foundation for Family
Planning declared, Fuego en la Sangre ‘promotes and justifies violence against women in
all confines’ (Minerva 2008, 35). Within this schema, the telenovela presents ‘machismo
and violence as something natural’ and ‘portrays women as submissive and long-suffering’
or ‘vindictive and ambitious’ (Minerva 2008, 35).
According to the Council, such gender representations have dangerous repercussions,
especially when ‘transmitted daily’ on primetime free to air television, ‘with a ratings
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average of 36 points’, and when ‘it has been proven that television influences social
behaviour’ (Minerva 2008, 35). Thus in order to counter the negative repercussions that
Fuego en la Sangre might elicit, the council ‘submitted a proposal to Televisa outlining
ways in which the message transmitted by “Fuego en la Sangre” might be corrected’
(Minerva 2008, 35).
Such case studies make a convincing argument for the telenovela love story’s seductive
ability to endorse traditional patriarchal values, invariably tied to the nationalist project of
nation construction. Indeed, the ratings success of Fuego en la Sangre indicates the appeal
of these stories. Yet to read the seductive power of the love-story-as-‘ideological-stateapparatus’ as the only cause for the enduring popularity of the telenovela’s ‘tidy nation’ is
misleading. Such an ‘effects model’ is overly simplistic.
Telenovelas are wildly popular, and Cueva’s analysis of Fuego en la Sangre’s success
confirms this complexity. For Cueva, the telenovela’s recourse to tradition actually panders
to an audience that is ‘sick to death of being tricked with ‘new’ proposals that aren’t even
new, that aren’t even worthwhile’ (Cueva 2008, n.p). Here Mexicans ‘are deeply
disappointed with the ‘change’ that we demanded over six years ago’ that ‘we don’t want to
advance, we want to live like the films of Pedro Infante. Fuego en la Sangre is all this and
more’ (Cueva 2008, n.p). This echoes Cueva’s take on the telenovela’s recourse to tradition
following the 2006 presidential election;
after such a socially intense two thousand and six for us, all Mexicans are very desperate
for entertainment that helps us to dream. Almost everything we see is destructive. Almost
everything we see is negative. We want to find something that makes us dream. That
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makes us believe in love again. That makes us believe in the couple again, that there are
possibilities (2007, pers. comm., 12 January).
Following this model, the ratings success of Fuego en la Sangre indicates not only the
seductive power of the telenovela’s nationalist love stories, but also the great power that
audiences have in influencing the very content of the telenovela productions they so avidly
consume. As Cuauhtémoc Blanco commented ‘ultimately the influence between the sender
and the receiver is mutual. The “influence” is on both sides. And although the megaphone
is on this side, the answer will always be on the other’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Consequently, an understanding of the role of the audience is crucial to understanding the
complexity of factors that facilitate this nationalist schema within the post-national context
of twenty-first century telenovela production. Integral to this approach is a consideration of
the role of the cultural imaginary. Introduced at the beginning of this chapter for its ability
to normalise exclusionary nationalist discourses inherent to the nation-building project, the
cultural imaginary provides the means through which this exclusionary project continues
beyond a reductionist model of ‘cause’ and ‘effect’. This comprehensive picture, labelled
here as an ‘ideological ecosystem’, incorporates history, myth, past, present and telenovela
production and consumption, to assist an informed analysis of the perpetuation of
nationalist discourses within the Mexican telenovela, despite over fifty years of changes to
both form and content.
This analytical framework ultimately helps to construct a more comprehensive picture of
the interrelationship between official nation-construction policies, television text and the
production and consumption practices surrounding the Mexican telenovela. The following
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chapter begins this analysis through the plotting of exclusionary nationalist discourses
regarding ‘appropriate’ female citizenship within the cultural imaginary. This then serves
Chapter Three’s analysis of how production, audience and text are both product and
proponent of nationalist ideology within the contemporary telenovela industry.
Chapter Two: The ‘Bigger Picture’: Plotting a History of Female Mythification
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Chapter Two
The ‘Bigger Picture’:
Plotting a History of Female Mythification
‘To understand the present, we must somehow come to grips with the past.’
— Eleazar Meletinsky
History repeats itself within the Mexican telenovela. Indeed, despite the post-national
context for contemporary production, telenovela narratives continue to reflect gender norms
reminiscent of official nationalist policies of the past. This apparent replication of the
relationship between the culture industries and the state seems at odds with the privatised
industry. By plotting a continuum of conservative nation building narratives throughout
Mexican history, this chapter identifies the ways in which an exclusionary cultural
imaginary is both produced by, and reproduces, these once state-driven ideologies
surrounding female citizenship. This framework is crucial to avoiding reductionist models
of the industry. By identifying the Mexican telenovela as a complex ‘site of “mediations”
between production, reception, and culture’ (Acosta Alzuru 2003b, 211) the origins and
development of the telenovela’s exclusionary configuration of female citizenship are
revealed.
Facilitating this analysis is a focus on female mythification, which is defined here as the
construction and perpetuation of exclusionary discourses surrounding female citizenship as
determined by the state and propagated within the cultural industries. Here, female
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mythification provides the means through which the constructed nature (origins) of these
discourses can be traced, thereby necessitating the historical focus of this chapter. Yet its
perpetuation within the cultural industries signals its place within the cultural imaginary,
and its replication within contemporary consumption and production practices. As such, the
historical focus of this chapter traces both the origins and development of female
mythification within official government policy and the cultural industries. This work leads
to Chapter Three’s analysis of the perpetuation of female mythification through
contemporary production and consumption practices. Plotting how the ideological
parameters of female citizenship were developed and sustained, this ‘bigger picture’ reveals
how female mythification enables the past’s continued haunting of the present.
Historical Precedents of Female Mythification
The History and Myth of an Iconic Cast
‘Each narrator focuses on different elements of the event, reflecting the distinct historical and
political needs of that period.’
— Sandra Cypess Messenger
An understanding of the dialectical relationship between history and myth is integral to an
exploration of female mythification. Certainly, myth’s ability to ‘purify’ history and its
‘complexity of human acts’ (Barthes 1957, 131) resounds with the logic of history — and
its cast of principals — as fictional narrative. History is replete with heroes and villains,
whose construction is often fictionalised; based upon the types of stories told about them in
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the service of a particular agenda, rather than the known facts surrounding their existence.
Here, the Spanish word historia, meaning both ‘history’ and ‘story’, is particularly telling.
Consequently, in tracing the origins of nationalist gender discourses within the Mexican
cultural imaginary, the lines between ‘history’ and ‘myth’ are intimately intertwined. Here,
an understanding of the ‘mythification of history’ and the consequent ‘historicising of
myth’ reveals not only the complex process of female mythification throughout history, but
how this ‘fetishising’ of certain characteristics and narrative tropes within the telling,
‘purifies’ both the complexity of human acts inherent to this narration, and the narrative
itself. The consequent ease within which the telenovela’s fictional characters can replicate
history’s female archetypes is clear here. For these reasons, a certain ‘working backwards’
through the myths of history reveals the history of those myths surrounding femininity,
making it integral to understanding the ‘storytelling’ at the heart of the Mexican cultural
imaginary and its telenovela produce.
Central to this storytelling are two key characters that are framed as the origins of gender
ideology within Mexican society. Constituting the original figures of the virgin and the
whore within the cultural imaginary, La Malinche and La Virgen de Guadalupe (‘The
Virgin of Guadalupe’) are the ‘figures in Mexican history that embody the most extreme
and diverse possibilities of femininity’ (Castellanos 1996, 147). As both historical and
mythical figures, they played an important role in the conquest of Mexico, but were
subsequently mythified throughout history via the various political agendas through which
they have been invoked. Consequently, their sixteenth century origins could not have
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determined the vast role that they would play within the construction of gender discourse in
later centuries, following recourse to a dichotomous model of femininity within periods of
nation-construction such as the Mexican Independence and Revolution periods, as well as
within the cultural imaginary.
The Whore
La Malinche’s trajectory from historical figure to mythical whore begins in 1519 with the
conquest of New Spain. As interpreter and mistress for Hernán Cortés, the leader of the
Spanish Conquerors, Malinche is widely accredited with facilitating the conquest of
Mexico. Cortés’ recorded assertion that ‘After God we owe this conquest of New Spain to
Dona Marina’ (cited in Wilkerson 1984, 448) testifies to this role. Yet Malinche was also
respected by the Indigenous Mexicans, which indicates her role as intermediary force
between the natives and conquerors. Lenchek explains that ‘As Cortés moved toward the
Aztec capital, a pattern evolved. First conflict, then meetings in which Dona Marina played
a key role in avoiding more bloodshed’ (Lencheck 1997, n.p.).
So how did this important figure become synonymous with treachery and betrayal, as the
epitome of the whore within the Mexican cultural imaginary? Addressing this question,
John Taylor argues that ‘The best way to achieve a sane and discernable interpretation of
Malinche is to attempt to evaluate her role after separating her from the myths and mistaken
identities that have slandered her image’ (Taylor J. 2000, 1). Tracing the development of
her name and its cultural connotations is one way that this ‘posthumous revision’ can be
revealed (Taylor J. 2000, 1).
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Acquired by the conquerors when the Mayans gave the Spanish ‘food, cloth, gold, and
slaves, including 20 women’ (Conner n.d., n.p.) Malinche was then merely the slave girl
Malinalli. Yet after endearing herself to Cortés for her ability to speak both Mayan and
Nahua, the language of the Mexica (Azteca), Malinalli was baptised Marina. Later,
Malinalli’s role as communicator and crucial strategist in the conquest saw her granted the
honorary title from the two cultures that she was negotiating; to become Doña Marina in
Spanish and Malintzin in Nahua. Upon hearing her Nahuatl name, the Spanish dubbed her
‘Malinche’. Respected by both the Spanish and the Indigenous Mexicans, the famous
Malinche was named.
Yet this was not to last. Often referred to as La Chingada (‘the fucked one’) La Malinche is
immortalised within the term malinchismo. Describing a ‘condition’ that disdains one’s
own “native” ways, in favour of validation from the foreigner, this derivative of Malinche
pays homage to a very particular reading of Malinche’s role within the conquest of Mexico.
Framed as a traitor and temptress, Malinche is symbolic of what Mexican novelist Octavio
Paz describes as those ‘Indian women who were fascinated, violated, or seduced by the
Spaniards’ (Paz 1985, 78). Exactly why this particular subjectivity has been ostracised over
the years is explored subsequently with an analysis of the work of the national identity
within Mexico’s pensador [‘thinker’] literary tradition, which matured in the mid-twentieth
century. Yet suffice it to say here, Malinche’s denigration comes from her status as
simultaneously the perpetrator of ‘Mexico's original sin’ (Krauss 1997, A3) and ‘the
rationalization for the Amerindian failure to overcome the Europeans’ (Messenger Cypess
1991b, n.p.).
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As a site of nation-construction, the decline in Malinche’s status occurred around the
independence period ‘at exactly the same time that the Mexicans threw out the Spaniards in
1821’ (Salas 1990, 14). Serving ‘the particular historical needs of a complex society in
change’ (Messenger Cypess 1991b, n.p.) Malinche fell victim to the nationalists’ anti
colonial campaign ‘to promote the Indian heritage of the Mexican people, whilst
denigrating this mestizo mother of Mexico as ‘“anti-heroine, a national Judas,” and the
scapegoat for three centuries of colonial rule’ (Taylor J. 2000, 4). This continues into the
contemporary context.
In early 1980s Mexico City when attempts were made to erect a statue of Malinche, Cortés
and their son Martin, violent street protests broke out and the monument was desecrated
and destroyed (Krauss 1997, A3). The house where Malinche lived is still standing, yet it
has no place in Mexican history. It does not even have a plaque. In a city that
commemorates the house where Leon Trotsky was assassinated, where Frida Kahlo and
Diego Rivera lived, with museums that document everything from stamps to caricatures
and comics, this house is absent. As a tenant of the residence explained, ‘For Mexico to
make this house a museum, would be like the people of Hiroshima creating a monument for
the man who dropped the atomic bomb. …We’re not malinchistas, but we want to conserve
Mexican history’ (Krauss 1997, A3).
Such is Malinche’s infamy that she has become immortalised in urban mythology through
the figure of La Llorona (‘the crying woman’). Like all good urban myths, the tale of La
Llorona has been told over, and her figure fetishised. The story stretches back to pre86 | P a g e
conquest Mexico, and varies with each retelling, but the basic legend has it that upon
seeking vengeance for her husband’s betrayal, La Llorona drowned her children only to
realise, too late, her mistake. Condemned, she is sentenced to roam for all eternity, weeping
and suffering, in search of her lost children.
This story is familiar because La Llorona’s polygenesis is extensive; her form can be found
in the mythology and urban legends across cultures, from the Ancient Greek Medea, to the
African ‘Crying Wind’, the Philippine ‘White Woman’, and the Irish Banshee. Yet
although La Llorona’s story is one of betrayal and revenge, pathos characterises her tragic
plight to recover her murdered children. This crying woman represents a warning to
women, as her incomprehensible act of infanticide narrates the horror of a transgressed
motherhood and the inevitable punishment for her offense against the patriarchal order
(Schmitz 2003, 146). It is here that La Malinche is conflated with La Llorona. For her
offense against the patriarchal order and eternal penance for the murder of her children, La
Llorona’s crimes are those of La Malinche. Eternally punished for this betrayal, La
Llorona/La Malinche represent the despised whore mother who as ‘a synecdoche for all
Indian women […] lament the fate of their progeny to the Spanish conquistadors’
(Messinger Cypess 1991b, n.p.).
Many have attempted to salvage Malinche’s name in recent years. Some suggest that she
saved thousands of lives by encouraging the Spaniards to negotiate with the natives rather
than ‘wage total war’ (Lenchek 2006, n.p.). Others have argued that ‘it is important to
remember that at that time the idea of nationhood was non-existent’ such that ‘Mexico was
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not united, and it certainly was not a nation’ (Taylor J. 2000, 5). Therefore, to believe the
separate indigenous groups would unite ‘in a common cause against Europeans’ is
consequently at odds with the historical context (Taylor J. 2000, 5). Similarly, to accuse
Malinche of betrayal is at odds with her own reality; having been sold into slavery and then
passed from different tribes to the Spanish. Her allegiances to ‘her people’ were obviously
compromised and it is not difficult to imagine that her ascension from slave girl to
interpreter would have consolidated her identification with the Spaniards.
Recent attempts by Chicana feminist artists and writers to reappropriate the Malinche myth
by resituating her figure within modern day logic, illustrate the ongoing importance of this
figure for gender norms within the Mexican, and by extension Chicanan, cultural
imaginary. Yet whilst revelatory in its own right, Malinche’s mythification can only be
fully understood when measured against that of her historical counterpart; the Virgin of
Guadalupe.
The Virgin
Upon her apparition in 1531, the Virgin of Guadalupe reportedly queried; ‘Am I not here,
who am your mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not the source
of your joy?’ (Brading 2001, 85) Her words were comfort to the Indigenous peasant Juan
Diego to whom she spoke and in centuries since, this spiritual mother of Mexico is deemed
to have brought salvation to those who writer Octavio Paz has called the hijos de la
chingada (‘sons of the whore’) (Paz 1985, 71). As Gabrielle Schmitz explains, ‘It is
Malinche’s betrayal that La Virgen redeems’ (Schmitz 2003, 140).
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The thanks paid to this holy mother are countless. Shrines to Guadalupe are everywhere; in
churches, schools, houses, taxis, buses and restaurants. Streets, towns, cities, rivers,
mountains, shops and children bear her name. Her image appears on city and town walls,
business logos, mirrors, candles, magnets, mugs, mouse pads, caps, air fresheners, stickers,
t-shirts, key rings and postcards. Tattooed on arms and backs, chests and hearts, Guadalupe
is omnipresent. Whether in ‘plaster, marble, wood, stone, clay, cake, candy, cloth, tissuepaper, beads [or] embroidery’ (Lyons-Perez n.d., 1), her image is a part of the fabric of
daily life. Unlike the statue of Malinche, Guadalupe’s enduring presence as the pride and
joy of a people stands testament to their allegiance to Mexico.
Without fail, every twelfth of December, over 10 million pilgrims flock to pay their
respects at the site of her apparition in Mexico City. It is the second most popular Catholic
religious site in the world, only after the Vatican. Such devotion has made Guadalupe the
‘the single most potent religious, political, and cultural image’ of the Mexican people
(Maldonado 2004, 97-98). Indeed, as ‘the rubber band that binds this disparate nation into
a whole’ (King 2006, n.p.), Guadalupe ensures that ‘a Mexican remains Mexican in
California, an Indian remains Indian in Mexico’ (Martínez R. 1996, 101). Although there is
an increasing evangelism throughout Mexico, belief in the Catholic virgin appears to
transcend religious parameters. Exemplifying Guadalupe’s transcendence, when Benito
Juárez’s government separated church and state in 1859 ‘the only remaining religious
holiday in the country was December 12, the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe’ (King 2006,
n.p.).
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This power to unite disparate groups has accompanied Guadalupe from the sixteenth to the
twenty-first century, and whilst not suffering such a reversal of fortune as Malinche,
Guadalupe’s accompanying mythification reflects the needs of each historical period.
Beginning a decade after the arrival of the Spanish on Mexican shores, Guadalupe first
assisted the conquest of New Spain, which was still not going to plan. For despite the
successful destruction of many temples, the Spaniards had trouble converting the natives to
Catholicism, as they resented the razing of their temples and mourned their deities. Their
loss of land, religion and freedom saw them ready to revolt. This was highly problematic.
The conquistadors considered religious conversion to be one of their main objectives in the
New World as the fervently Catholic Queen Isabella's personal mission was the conversion
of ‘the natives’ (Maldonado 2004, 100). As funding for further expeditions depended upon
this conversion (Maldonado 2004, 100) it was of prime importance that the deities and rites
of the native religions — among them human sacrifices — were entirely eradicated. Such
eradication was seen as a military tactic, because assimilation meant control (Maldonado
2004, 100).7
Arguably, the apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe changed the course of history. The
story of the apparition of a woman who had appeared at the site of the deposed goddess
Tonantzin spread like wild fire. Her appearance to the Indigenous peasant Juan Diego, and
the image she left on his shawl, formed the key to convert ‘9 million of the inhabitants of
the land, who professed for centuries a polytheistic and human sacrificing religion […] to
7
As Maldonado states, ‘To Imperial minds, native conversion to Catholicism was necessary in order to make
Indians intelligible, which would, in turn, make them more exploitable by controlling their religious belief
system in order for assimilation to occur’ (Maldonado 2004, 100).
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Christianity’ (Maldonado 2004, 100). Yet key to Guadalupe’s power were the many
elements that spoke to the indigenous people of their old goddesses.
Speaking the Aztec tongue Nahuatl and appearing to an Indian man, Guadalupe was
thought to be the reincarnation of the deposed goddess Tonantzin. The timing was right
after the abandonment of the male gods during the conquest. Appearing at the end of the
fifth age of the sun- epitomised by the god of war Huitzicoatl- Guadalupe augured the age
of the moon and a return to the female force. She was the mother Goddess reborn. As ‘a
brown-skinned woman surrounded by the sun, cloaked in a blue mantle covered with stars,
standing on a crescent moon held by an angel’ (Rodriguez x1994, xv) she contained key
symbols from the Azteca religion, which referenced figures from the pantheon of gods and
goddesses. This saw the continued pilgrimage to the hill of Tepeyac (now the site of the
Catholic Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe) to worship the goddess Tonantzin, despite
her new name and form. In fact, many scholars believe that Guadalupe’s name was a
corruption of the Nahuatl name proffered by the virgin, with the Spanish attempting to give
her a Catholic name.8
It is not difficult to locate the origins of the Virgin of Guadalupe’s ‘mythification’, already
evident in her use by these different cultures of sixteenth century New Spain. Yet her place
in the cultural imaginary of an increasingly commodified national identity grew throughout
the centuries. A long serving representative of the national cause, the virgin played a key
8
Some believe that the original name proffered was the Aztec Nahuatl word coatlaxopeuh, pronounced
“quatlasupe” and sounding like the Spanish Guadalupe. Other names such as Coatlicue have also been
suggested, and mark the direct lineage of “Guadalupe” to “the long line of mother goddesses” within the
indigenous tradition (Maldonado 2004, 111).
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role in the War of Independence. Just as Malinche was being reinterpreted as a national
traitor, Guadalupe graced the nationalists’ banners in the fight for freedom from Spanish
oppression (King 2006, n.p.). She was used a century later by the Mexican Revolutionary
forces, as Zapata’s army ‘carried the image into battle and made the Virgin's name a
rallying battle cry’ (Mueller n.d. n.p.). In 1994 Guadalupe fronted the indigenous land
rights campaign as rebels from Southern Mexico marched to Mexico City and protested
against the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). In the same decade, then
President Vincente Fox used the Virgin’s image during those political rallies in which he
endorsed the move to neoliberalism (Vazquez 2004).
Regardless of political affiliation, it is the divinity attributed to Guadalupe that sees her
sanction various battles on behalf of the nation. Miraculous occurrences have increased her
followers exponentially and recognising this unwavering devotion to the Virgin, the
Catholic and Governmental authorities declared her ‘Patroness of Mexico City in 1737, the
Queen of Mexico in 1895, Patroness of Latin America in 1910 and Empress of the
Americas 1945’ (Mueller n.d., n. p.). Her celebration over the near half millennium since
her apparition has mirrored Malinche’s demise. Yet despite their appearance throughout
history, it was arguably not until the early and mid twentieth century that their place in the
annals of Mexican history was consolidated and their mythification within the cultural
imaginary secured. Written into national identity by the pensador literati (loosely translated
as ‘the thinkers’) the place of the virgin/whore dichotomy within the cultural imaginary has
much to do with the literature tracing the origins of national identity to these iconic figures.
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Mythifying History/Historicising Myth — ‘Thinking’ about
Mexican National Identity
Recourse to myth to explain the historical origins of national identity is typical of this
masculinist literary tradition yet arguably the most influential text on Mexican national
identity is El Laberinto de Soledad (‘The Labyrinth of Solitude’) written by Nobel Prize
winning poet laureate and pensador Octavio Paz. Extending the concepts regarding national
identity set forth by Samuel Ramos in his 1934 text El perfil del hombre y la cultura en
Mèxico (‘Profile of man and culture in Mexico’) Paz continues to ‘psychoanalyse’ national
identity and culture.9
Central to Paz’s work is the notion that Mexican national identity is marked by isolation
and ‘solitude’ as a manifestation of the geo-political history of the nation. Subscribing to
the pensador tradition of turning ‘history into psychodrama, and psychodrama into
interpretations of cultural practice’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 2) Paz delineates these ‘national
traits’ to historical periods of foreign invasion throughout Mexican history. This history has
been well plotted by scholars, as seen with Ana Castillo’s annotation;
Mexico blamed the ruin of the nineteenth century on the foreigner, and with good reason.
Once emptied of Spain, the palace of Mexico became the dollhouse of France. Mexico was
overrun by imperial armies. The greed of Europe met the Manifest Destiny of the United
States in Mexico. Austria sent an archduke to marry Mexico with full panoply of candles
9
Central to Ramos’ work is the notion that ‘Mexican family life was tainted by the traumas of conquest’
(Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 2-3). As Lomnitz-Adler writes, ‘Samuel Ramos connected a perceived inferiority
complex in Mexico as a nation to this crushing betrayal of the indigenous culture. Ramos suggested that the
Europeans’ taking of native women as wives and mistresses left the native males confused, impotent, and
angry at their women. In the hundreds of years that followed, the mestizo children of this union have felt
ambivalent and guilty about their unique heritage. According to Ramos and others who have written on the
subject, Mexican culture has come to resent as well as idealize the European father figure, while at the same
time hating and feeling inferior to him’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 141).
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and bishops. The U.S. reached under Mexico’s skirt every chance he got (Castillo 1997b,
21).
Incorporating this history into the ‘psychology’ of the Mexican nation, Paz traces gender
discourse within Mexican national identity- specifically the ‘national traits’ of machismo
and marianismo- as a manifestation of foreign invasion.
Paz considers the sixteenth century Spanish conquest of Mexico and the MexicanAmerican war of 1848 to be the most important periods to the development of gender
within the ‘Mexican psyche’. He locates the origins of Mexican ‘solitude’ in the
exploitation of the Indigenous people throughout the conquest yet he specifies the
appropriation of indigenous woman by the conquerors during this era as responsible for
gender relations in subsequent centuries. Here, loss of land, women and freedom to the
foreign conquerors rendered the native men impotent. Even after gaining independence
from Spain in the eighteenth century, the Mexican-American war would prevent these old
wounds from healing.. Further to this logic, Mexico’s geography, ‘so far from God, so
close to the United States’,10 deepened these wounds, through the ‘destiny’ made ‘manifest’
by its northern neighbour.
On February the 2nd, 1848, to end the conflict with the United States of America, Mexico
was paid $15 million for ceding what is now the Southwest of the US. Known as the Treaty
of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the deal signed over vast amounts of Mexican territory, which now
form the US states of New Mexico, California, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and parts of
Colorado (Acuña in Rodriguez 1994, 67). With countless Mexican nationals displaced,
10
As infamously observed by Mexico’s nineteenth century dictator Porfirio Diaz.
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women once again became a commodity to be exchanged with the foreigner for better
social standing and living conditions (Rodriguez 1994, 68). As the pensadores tell, the
constant penetration by the foreigner manifested in an inferiority complex for the Mexican
male, whose sense of impotence led to the guilt and suffering of his woman.
The Macho & Marianismo
Within the pensador tradition, the quintessentially Mexican male attempts ‘to make
supposedly greater masculinity compensate for the inferiority complex that most Mexicans,
by virtue of their racial and economic status as well as their heritage as a conquered,
colonized people suffer’ (O’Malley 1986, 8). According to this logic, Mexican man
embraces the defences found within machismo. Described as ‘the male perpetual
adolescent, the swaggering bully forever proving his manhood by bravado, by besting other
men, by dominating women’ (O’Malley 1986, 141) the macho has ‘no recourse but to
commit violence, including sexual violence, against women and against their fellow man so
as to shore up a sagging and threatened identity as the possessor of a powerful and
inviolable male body’ (Gaspar de Alba 2002, 42).
The need for the macho to exaggerate the self and to adopt a ‘mask’ to avoid what are
deemed weak ‘feminine’ qualities of fear and vulnerability has been labelled the ‘Mexican
Disease’ by Octavio Paz. Here the macho dissimulates, impersonating strength in order to
compensate for the ‘inferiority complex’ that tortures his soul. Yet the illusory nature of
machismo’s empowerment is found within its failure ‘to change the socioeconomic
structure that denies […] manhood in the first place’ (O’Malley 1986, 141) and signals its
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need to be continually reasserted. Thus Mexican man’s ongoing need to repress the
‘feminine’ in self and others is a natural consequence of this psychological ‘condition’.
According to the pensadores this need to suppress the feminine results is an inherently
derogatory attitude towards women, yet and a corresponding veneration of the virginal
figure. Manifesting as the virgin/whore complex inherent to female gender roles, this male
‘condition’ posits marianismo as the ideal of female virtue.
Named after its emulation of the Virgin Mary, marianismo ‘is the cult of feminine spiritual
superiority, which teaches that women are semidivine, morally superior to and spiritually
stronger than men’ (Stevens 1973, 4). Here, women are valued only through their purity
and desexualisation and as such, the cult of marianismo is a manifestation of machismo’s
fear of female betrayal through active sexual independence.11 As a product of machismo,
the pensadores trace marianismo to the traumatised Mexican male psyche, and even more
explicitly to the quintessential figures of the Virgin and the whore.
Within Paz’s work especially, these sixteenth century figures become synonymous with
gender roles within Mexican national identity. Here female virtue, as represented by
Guadalupe, is configured in opposition to the active sexuality and independence of La
Malinche. Representative of ‘the Indian women who were fascinated, raped or seduced by
the Spaniards’ (Paz 1985, 89) Paz identifies La Malinche as the prototype of the ‘violated
11
Debra Castillo, quoting George Bataille, interprets the logic of this schema, suggesting that for Mexican
men ‘not every woman is a potential prostitute, but prostitution is the logical consequence of the feminine
attitude. In so far as she is attractive, a woman is prey to men’s desire. Unless she refused completely because
she is determined to remain chaste, the question is at what price and under what circumstances will she yield’
(Castillo 1998, 21). Consequently, ‘[p]rostitution proper only brings in a commercial element’ (Castillo 1998,
21).
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mother’ (La Chingada). Within this schema, ‘[t]he chingada is the Mother forcibly opened,
violated or deceived’ (Paz 1985, 71) and ’the hijo de la chingada [‘son of the whore’] is the
offspring of violation, abduction or deceit’ (Paz 1985, 71). By asserting the ongoing
dishonour of being ‘the fruit of a violation’ (Paz 1985, 72) Paz identifies the continued
resonance of this sixteenth century woman as the ‘Mexican Disease’ inherent to Mexican
national identity (Franco 1989, xix). Indeed, ‘just as a child cannot forgive the mother who
leaves him to look for the father, the Mexican nation cannot forgive the treason of La
Malinche’ (Paz cited in Franco 1989, xix).
Evidently, both the macho and marianismo follow the alleged betrayal of this woman, as
the psychological trauma of being ‘sons of the Malinche’ has meant that they ‘were shamed
by her rape (conquest) and thus forced to reject the feminine in themselves as the devalued,
the passive, the mauled and battered, as la chingada, the violated’ (Franco 1989, xix).
Consolidating this schema is marianismo’s promotion of female suffering and endurance,
where under the guise of moral superiority, woman is encouraged to facilitate the very
machismo that subordinates her. Here the strength of Paz’s ‘Mexican Disease’ is no doubt
its logical account of the machismo/marianismo dialectic.
Many scholars have balked at what they consider to be the pensadores ‘legitimisation’ of a
particularly misogynist configuration of Mexican national identity. Understanding these
criticisms is important not for qualifying one version of the nation over another, but for
gauging the constructed nature of this identity, to which the pensador tradition contributes.
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Problematising ‘the Thinkers’
Arguing that studies on Mexican national identity commonly determine female identity
only in relation to male identity, Jean Franco explains that ‘[th]e problem of national
identity was […] presented primarily as a problem of male identity, and it was male authors
who debated its defects and psychoanalyzed the nation’ (Franco 1989, 131). Debra Castillo
more specifically locates this phallocentrism within Paz’s analysis of the nation, arguing
that ‘[t]he “our” […] requires careful attention. It seems clear that the expansively inclusive
phrase omits one half of the species and suggests an applicability limited only to a
community of men’ (Castillo 1998, 90).
In particular, the work of Paz is considered problematic for many reasons. Principal
amongst them is its assertion that ‘[t]hrough suffering, our women become like our men:
invulnerable, impassive, and stoic’ (Paz 1985, 31). Celebrating this transition, Paz asserts
that machismo provides a ‘moral immunity to shield her unfortunate anatomical openness’
thereby ‘turning what ought to be a cause for shame into a virtue’ (Paz 1985, 31). Mirroring
the common nation-building trope of equating woman’s body with national territory, this
‘unfortunate anatomical openness’ represents the nation’s vulnerable status upon its
penetrability by the colonisers. As such, woman’s ‘anatomical openness’ becomes the site
of the nation’s shameful wound, and subsequently requires machismo’s impenetrability for
its salvation.12 The punishment of female sexual independence follows this logic.
12
This narrative is not unprecedented but, as Michelle Langford (referencing Chris Berry) explains, ‘the logic
of the wound’ posits national history as ‘beginning from a sort of low point of crisis when integrity and
survival of the nation body comes under threat’ (Berry in Langford forthcoming, 2). The continued resonance
of these national allegories comes from the dynamic of ‘drawing inspiration from the wounds of the past and
binding together the […] community in the present’ (Langford forthcoming, 3).
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The rejection of a sexualised Malinche, and the reverence of the virginal Guadalupe, cannot
be read outside of this nation-building narrative. Indeed, where Malinche as whore/wound
threatens the ‘geobody’ (Langford forthcoming, 5) of the nation, Guadalupe as
impenetrable virgin is its salvation. Effectively modelling the appropriate role for woman
within society, Guadalupe embodies the ideal feminine. Yet it is her purification and
desexualisation that are most prized in her status as the Virgin mother. Void of all sexual
agency, the mythification of Guadalupe’s purity represents male disarmament of the threat
of an assertive sexual woman.
For feminist scholars and activists, this female mythification is deliberate; a patriarchal tool
‘used against women and against certain races to control, regulate, and manipulate us’
(Anzaldúa and Keating 2000, 219). So whilst such stories may be invented, ‘they [have]
nevertheless powerfully controlled interpretation’ (Franco 1989, xxiii). Indeed, for these
scholars the relationship between the mythification of the virgin/whore, and gender
relations within Mexico is irrefutable, for as ‘the dramatic stories that become myths
authorize the continuance of ancient institutions, customs, rites and beliefs’, they
effectively ‘provide examples to be emulated, [and] precedents to be repeated’ (Messinger
Cypess 2008, 428). Consequently, by regulating the sexuality of its female citizens, female
mythification serves to ‘define and limit woman’s roles in Mexican and Chicano societies’
(Schmitz 2003, 53). As the celebrated Chicana writer Gloria Anzaldúa asserted, ‘[m]yths
and fictions create reality’ (Anzaldúa and Keating 2000, 219).
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For these scholars, the pensadores’ failure to engage with this logic has meant that they
perpetuate the construction of what are essentially exclusionary religious ideologies. Here,
the secularisation and subsequent popularisation of these discourses follows the
pensadores’ authorisation of religious ideology as national identity (Maldonado 2004, 109).
Claudio Lomnitz-Adler further interrogates the pensadores’ construction of national
identity. Exploring some of the most seminal texts within the pensador field, he laments the
prevalence of an ‘anti tradition’ of ‘armchair anthropology’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 256)
where national identity is formulated through ‘posing an identity problem’ rather than ‘an
increasingly precise theory of the ways in which a cultural and historical dialectic has
played out into Mexico’s present’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 9).
Within this equation, ‘a national whole […] cannot itself be described without
mythification’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 11) such that ‘the cumulous of ideas on Mexican
national culture is often just a pile of clichés that can be used whenever they are handy’
(Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 10-11). For Lomnitz-Adler it is this ‘stagnating pool of descriptions
of national traits that were produced by the pensadores’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 258) which
have entered the cultural imaginary only to be manipulated by ‘different political groups’
and made into the stereotypes that make up Mexican national identity (Lomnitz-Adler
1992, 10-11).
This post-pensador generation of writers makes a convincing case against the constructed
nature of national identity. However, despite their critique of these ‘oppressive’ and ‘false’
‘clichés’ and ‘stereotypes’, the ability for these ‘myths’ to produce ‘reality’ should not be
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underestimated. Indeed, speaking to the logic of the cultural imaginary, Lomnitz-Adler
concedes that despite their obvious deficiency in describing the nation, ‘It is astonishing
that we can so well understand and deconstruct the fallacies […] of the way in which
Mexican culture is generated […] and yet find ourselves hard put to understand […] why so
much of it “rings true”’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 13).
Thus despite their apparent ‘internal incommensurability’ with the ‘nature and relations
between the cultural groups that compose Mexico’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 260) an analysis
of those ‘fallacious’ clichés and stereotypes that make up this cultural imaginary helps to
trace their perpetuation within the telenovela. Beginning with the national archive of
cultural images, sounds and narratives made famous by the Mexican Revolution, the
following sections track the particularly innovate nation-building policies of the Mexican
Revolution’s cine de oro to the contemporary telenovela. Here, the use of cinema to
espouse the ideological components of the Revolution’s nation-building policy whilst
influencing the hearts and minds of the new nation’s citizens is the immediate precursor to
the sights, sounds and narratives of the nation evident on the small screen. Consequently, it
is the continued mythification of the virgin/whore dichotomy within this national cinema
that provides the source for contemporary televisual gender configurations.
Building [an A/V] Nation- The Revolution as Cultural Archive
‘The state has no desire to represent the real Mexico. It prefers to invent that which it
represents out of bits and pieces of images that are well known to all of us.’
— Ilene O’Malley
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The translation of the Mexican cultural imaginary into an audiovisual grammar of national
sounds, images and plot-lines owes much to the semiotics of nation-construction developed
through the cultural policy of the Mexican Revolution and its posterior governments. An
analysis of this period is particularly important, as more than any episode of Mexican
history, the Mexican cultural imaginary is ‘intimately associated’ with both ‘the idea of
“Mexicanness”’ and the ‘images’ that were generated by ‘that disturbance’ (Aguilar Camín
1998, 713). Indeed, ‘Mexico’s self-conscious fascination with the 1910 Revolution’
(O’Malley 1986, 129) has ensured that the national symbols produced by this conflict
continue into the twenty-first century.
Yet as a key site along the continuum of female mythification, which connects the present
to the pre-Revolutionary past, the Revolution’s nation-building project ultimately ‘mixed
and expanded upon the symbols of the past’ (Aguilar Camín 1998, 714). Indeed, in order to
secure the Mexican state’s ‘institutionalisation’ over three decades of Revolutionary and
Post-Revolutionary conflict (O’Malley 1986) the same woman-as-nation-building logic
evident in previous periods of unrest such as the Independence period was once again
deployed. Thus contrary to its rhetoric, the ‘Revolutionary’ Mexican State made recourse to
the gendered ideology of the past.
Initially proffering a revision of these gender norms, the Revolution brought feminist issues
into the public arena as women actively engaged in the revolutionary fight for a better life.
In addition to the more traditional war-time work of women such as nursing, women were
engaged in political activism and combat. The Soldadera (‘Female Soldier’) was a key
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figure in the Revolution. As ‘camp followers’, these women would follow the men into
battle, nursing, cleaning, cooking, spying and smuggling arms — often with their children
alongside them. These soldaderas often fought on the battlefield, and whilst historical
accounts of the period have largely forgotten the names and faces of these women, several
soldaderas are recorded as having been promoted to the rank of colonel (Macias 1980).
Ironically however, whilst ‘the demands and dislocations of the war forced many women
out of their traditional roles’ (O’Malley 1986, 133-4) they did not achieve equal status with
men. Here, the Government’s attempts to encourage nationalist sentiment through recourse
to ‘deeper cultural constructs’ and ‘symbols of the past’ ensured that macho and marian
ideologies remained largely unchallenged. In fact, one of the ideologies promoted as
synonymous with Revolutionary nationalism was machismo, which through the
mythification of the Revolution became synonymous with Mexicanidad (‘Mexicanness’).
Mythified as a quintessential feature of the Revolution, machismo had an ‘openly
proclaimed status as part of a national identity’ (O’Malley 1986, 7) and effectively equated
male ‘strength and political power’ with an exaggerated show of ‘sexual potency and
masculinity’ (O’Malley 1986, 133-4).13
Ultimately, the endorsement of machismo within Revolutionary rhetoric served to
consolidate traditional gender roles, which in turn facilitated the project of nation founding.
Evidently then, the Revolution’s struggle against the Church, both ‘as a religion and as a
rival institution’ did not involve a rejection of ‘the patriarchal, authoritarian sociopolitical
13
For O’Malley, the manifestation of machismo during the Revolutionary period must be read as an assertion
of male privilege after the ‘racist class oppression’ that had ‘emasculated lower-class men’ during Mexico’s
century of post Independence (O’Malley 1986, 136).
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mentality traditionally part of Catholic cultures’ (O’Malley 1986, 132). Rather, the
Revolutionary Government ‘merely sought to supplant the church as the supreme
institution and so continued to promote those “Catholic” virtues that encouraged
unquestioning popular faith in its doctrines’ (O’Malley 1986, 132). Consequently, in line
with Catholic rhetoric, family values were promoted as revolutionary, and the fulfilment of
patriarchal ideals became patriotic obligation (O’Malley 1986, 141).
Within this logic, citizens were alerted to the necessity of ‘strengthening the family’ in
order to ‘restore the population’s physical and “moral” health’ (O’Malley 1986, 138).
Concerned with the ‘breakdown of the traditional family structure’ during this period of
civil war (O’Malley 1986, 128) such ‘revolutionary’ ideology ensured the enforcement of
traditional roles for women. Indeed, ‘strengthening the family’ ran counter to the
introduction of feminist issues into the public arena. Not only would women ‘lose their
femininity if they acquired political power, equal rights, or suffrage’ but the women’s
movement in Mexico ‘ran counter to the national good’ (O’Malley 1986, 133-4). Indeed,
the feminist struggle for equal rights threatened this nation-building project, as critics
explained that Mexico ‘needed to increase its population in order to prosper, and birth
control (a major feminist goal) would prevent that increase’ (O’Malley 1986, 124).
The El Democrata newspaper summarised these fears in 1923, after the Mexico City
session of The Congress of the Panamerican League of Women. Stating that ‘we believe
that […] patriotism is being forgotten in these discussions’ they asked ‘has the progress of
feminism […] really diminished the idea of la patria among the people?’ (cited in
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O’Malley 1986, 124). Here, the feminist was framed within the logic of malinchismo, as
her rejection of national ideologies and espousal of the foreign, referenced La Malinche’s
betrayal to the conquerors. Discredited by El Democrata as ‘un-Mexican in character […]
by virtue of the participation of several North American women’ (cited in O’Malley 1986,
123-4) the Mexican feminist movement was seen to compromise the government’s nationconstruction.
To counter this threat, the Mexican Government called for women to reject feminism in
order to continue their role in reproducing the nation.14 As such, Mexican ‘Revolutionary’
logic facilitated the mythification of the virgin/whore dichotomy, where ‘good’ woman
carries out her national duty as chaste mother, and ‘bad’ woman seduced by grandiose ideas
of equality, effectively threatening the nation with her independent, implicitly sexual
agency. Nonetheless, it was one particularly insightful post-revolutionary government that
arguably secured the success of official investment in female mythification through the
pioneering of a national cinema.
In light of the mass migration of Mexican citizens to the US searching for opportunity after
thirty years of civil conflict the Ávila Camacho government sought national unity via the
assertion of government dominance as ‘the single authoritative apparatus guiding every
aspect of Mexican life’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 143). To achieve this end, the Ávila Camacho
14
As O’Malley explains, ‘[i]n 1923 Cesar Morales of the Ministry of Public Education drew upon the
stereotypes of the cold, mannish gringa to oppose feminism on the grounds that it would destroy “the
ingenuousness and modesty of the Mexican woman, converting her into a virago just as is happening today to
American women, who are different from ours”’ (O’Malley 1986, 123-4).
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presidency was unprecedented in its use of the mass audiovisual media to reinforce
nationalist ideals.
Known as Avilacamachismo (1940 - 1946) this government subsidised those media ‘whose
characters and characterizations embodied values and virtues consistent with those of the
state’ (Miller M.N 1998, 87) and consequently ‘determined and defined desired patterns in
national opinion and attitude’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 93). Although this nation building project
was ‘constructed at popular and high cultural levels ranging from radio, popular music,
dance, musical theater, posters, film, and cartoon magazines to art, architecture, ballet, and
classical music’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 1) film was the most successful medium for
Camacho’s strategy, as ‘[t]he great popularity of film personalities who represented the
image of the nation pleased the state’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 91). Consequently, the funding of
the most popular stars and production companies saw Ávila Camacho become ‘the man
who made the “golden age” of Mexican movie making possible’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 87).
Known as the cine de oro (‘Golden Age of Cinema’ 1935-1959) this inherently
nationalistic film industry first gained international success with following the reduced
competition from the Argentinean, Spanish and US commercial film industries, which were
invested in the production of Second World War films. Studios thrived as audiences
flocked to the latest cinema offerings which ‘premiered in the capital at the rate of one per
week’ (Dever 2003, 55). There was ample choice; from family melodramas and national
history features to urban based comedies of error (Dever 2003, 55). Yet the most popular
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were the comedias rancheras (‘ranch comedies’) starring matinee idols such as Jorge
Negrete and Pedro Infante (Arellano 2007, n.p.).
Celebrating the antics of macho galáns in a world of ‘gentle patriarchs’, ‘fair maidens’ and
‘honour matters’ (Acevedo Muñoz 2004, 39) these films continued the mythification of the
female dichotomy. Within what Rashkin has called the ‘countless patriarchal narratives of
the classic Mexican cinema’ (Rashkin 2001, 190), women are ‘displaced’ as ‘historical
subjects’ and ‘replaced’ with ‘symbolic figures whose repetitive trajectories were depicted
as essential to the reproduction of the social order within the context of a clearly patriarchal
nation-state’ (Rashkin 2001, 2). Charged with gathering ‘all Mexicans under the banner of
a unified national subject’ (Dever 2003, 47) these women determined the success of this
nation-building project. As Dever suggests, ‘female arbitration determined […] the filmic
representation of Mexico’s national project’ (Dever 2003, 49).
Either venerated as the suffering mother or vilified as the treacherous whore, this
‘cinematic tradition of female objectification, erasure, and displacement’ saw ‘women’s
erasure from the field of representation and their replacement by an iconic, passive image
of Woman’ (Rashkin 2001, 2). Thus despite the wide variety of filmic texts during this
prolific period of Mexican cinema, it is ‘the woman's body (through motherhood or
prostitution/sex and violence)’ that ultimately ‘constitutes the site where the nation is
articulated’ (Acevedo Muñoz 2004, 40). Combined with the popularity of this national
storytelling apparatus, its iconography and its stars, this ‘celluloid patriotism’ (Dever
2003,) soon became synonymous with the version of Mexico that circulated within the
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cultural imaginary. As the continued presence of these films within the contemporary
cultural sphere would suggest, this aging body of cinema remains synonymous with the
national imagined community.
Consequently, the consolidation of the audiovisual grammar for nation-building within the
form of a national cinema did not disappear with the demise of the cine de oro period at the
end of the 1950s. Rather, the status of the Mexican Revolution as cultural archive continued
with the shift from nationalist narratives of nation-building onto the small screen. Thus
whilst the inception of television arguably facilitated the demise of the ‘golden age’ of
Mexican cinema, it also consecrated its iconography. This consecration has proven twofold. Through the television syndication of classic Mexican cinema texts, regular
programming of golden era cinema throughout the television week is testament to the
continued resonance of this cinema and its iconography. The Mexican telenovela provides
this other key site for the audio-visual narration of the nation-building project.
Thus rather than spell the demise of this narrative project, the end of the cine de oro
augured a ‘new and improved’ era of national construction through popular cultural texts.
This shift to the small screen provided a more suitable platform for the dissemination of
nation-building ideology for a number of reasons. Comparatively, television proved to be
infinitely more accessible to the national audience than cinema. In a society where the cost
of an adult cinema entrance is more than the minimum daily wage (approximately
$65MXN compared to $57MXN), television’s accessibility across socio-economic lines
cannot be overstated. Its location in the intimate sphere of the home also consolidated its
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reach. Indeed, the telenovela’s ability to reach into the homes and hearts of the nation’s
citizens has not been ignored by the government. The State’s reliance on the television
networks to facilitate its presence in the Mexican home is particularly evident with
nineteen-seventies presidential candidate Ernesto Zedillo’s assertion to Televisa that ‘I
count on you for my campaign. I will be present in every house to which you carry my
image. […] But more than anything, after the elections, if elected, I count on you for my
presidency’ (cited in Fox 1997, 45).
As indicated in Chapter One, the nature of television scheduling also secures its status as
ideal contemporary vehicle for nation-construction. Programmed for all hours of the day,
television is infinitely more pervasive than the film texts that only a select few will
ultimately view, on an occasional basis. Yet not only does this scheduling make the
telenovela such as powerful nation-building tool. Furthermore, its repetitive Manichaean
melodramatic narrative structure provides the ideal fictional context for the construction of
an ‘ideal imagined’ community on the small screen (Estill 2001, 187), as female
mythification follows this inherently dichotomous schema.
Evidently, the relationship the culture industries and the state that was established during
the Avila Camacho era can be clearly traced into the television age. This was evident early
on, with politicians of the PRI government presiding over the television conglomerate.
Perhaps most notable here is the political-entrepreneurial Alemán dynasty. Indeed, the
wealth and political power of this family is inextricably linked with the culture industries.
Beginning with the ex-president of Mexico Miguel Alemán Valdés (1946-52) — whose
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presidency authorised the commercial model for television in Mexico — it is unsurprising
that his son Miguel Alemán Velasco went on to preside within Televisa whilst occupying
key positions within the PRI.15 Presiding over one of the richest families in Mexico,
Alemán Velasco only sold his 14.4% share of Grupo Televisa in 1999 for a reported $300
million dollars after becoming the Governor of Veracruz. 16
The three generations of Televisa’s Azcárraga dynasty similarly illustrates this strategic
partnership between the culture industries and the state.
17
As the majority owners of
Televisa, the Azcárraga family has long declared its loyalty to the PRI government. Dubbed
‘the country’s second Secretary of Education’ by renowned Mexican cultural critic Carlos
Monsiváis (Quiñones 2001, 56) second generation Emilio Azcárraga Milmo famously
declared that he was first and foremost a ‘soldier of the PRI’ (Preston 2007, n.p.). Yet
despite Televisa’s support for the cause, this relationship benefited both ‘parties’.
Arguably Televisa’s support of the PRI encouraged the government to legislate against
competition within the industry, thereby facilitating Televisa’s monopoly for nearly half a
century. Similarly, Televisa’s history as ‘propaganda arm’ for the PRI had clear benefits for
the Government. Indeed, the government’s relationship with Televisa illustrates its faith in
television to assist its maintenance of political power. Believing that it was ‘easier for a
viewer to identify with an emotion than with an idea’ (Cueva 2001, 86) the PRI’s faith in
15
Including Secretary of Finance and Senator of the Republic.
In 1998 he also renounced his presidency of Televisa’s División de Noticieros e Informativos (‘Division of
News and Current Affairs’) and chief spokesperson of the media conglomerate, to become governor of
Veracruz. (Anon. n.d.b, n.p.).
17
Including the four generations of Azcárraga media moguls, beginning with 1930s XEW-AM radio station
founder Raúl Azcárraga Vidaurreta; his brother and Televisa’s founder Emilio Azcárraga Vidaurreta; exTelevisa president Emilio Azcárraga Milmo; and current Televisa head Emilio Azcárraga Jean.
16
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television’s ‘ideological effects’ and in particular, the telenovela’s ability to impart ‘a
value-laden message’ saw an investment ‘in about the early 1960s, to intentionally exploit
melodrama’s power’ (Quiñones 2001, 57). By the 1970s the Government began to invest in
the development of ‘pro-social’ entertainment-education telenovelas.
Here, the Mexican telenovela’s ‘excessive’ melodrama can be linked to its political origins
in Mexico, as can the Manichaean nature of Mexican telenovela melodrama. Finding it
roots in official censorship of television content during the PRI government’s decades in
power, official script approval ensured allegiance ‘the ethical and moral rules stipulated by
the secretariat to the Mexican government’ (Beard 2003, 75). Once scripts had been revised
by the department, an agent for the Interior Secretariat was a permanent fixture at
rehearsals and filming, to ensure that no unsound changes were made to the approved
stories (Quiñones 1998b, 41). As famed telenovela writer Fernanda Villeli (accredited with
creating the telenovela genre in the 1950s) explained in a 1979 interview, ‘[t]here are
supervisors that read every last word and supervisors watching the screen to check that
there has not been any disobedience’ (Arizpe and Grau 1979, 49).
Within this schema, any narrative that undermined government authority was avoided. As
such, ‘no politician could be mentioned, least of all the president’ (Quiñones 2001, 56).
Similarly, harsh economic realities were prohibited as ‘the gap between rich and poor was a
delicate issue for the regime and not to be broached’ (Quiñones 2001, 56). Under this
censorship, ‘no barefoot children showed up on film, no character could discuss money, his
salary, how much something cost, or ever enter a bank’ (Quiñones 2001, 56).
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Consequently, ‘social mobility, […] came through marriage and not through hard work or
individual initiative’ (Quiñones 2001, 56). As Quiñones writes, the ‘classic telenovela plot’
that flourished under these limitations ‘quickly became the Cinderella story’ (Quiñones
2001, 57). The banning of drugs and alcohol, cursing, sex and nudity, birth control and
abortion, as well as other morally problematic themes (Quiñones 1998a, 34) reflected this
political and moral censorship, and as such the traditional telenovela rosa can be deemed
the ‘legitimate offspring’ of the relationship between the culture industries and the state.
So fundamental has this relationship been to television’s development that its influence
continues, even after ‘Mexico set out — as many would call it — to say good-bye to the
Mexican Revolution’ with its ‘serious attempt […] to modernize the institutional structure
that had been created’ (Aguilar Camin 718). With the declaration in 1993 that ‘the
government would no longer control the media’ (Quiñones 2001, 71) the PRI signalled the
context for telenovela production that came with the move to a neoliberal economy in 1994.
This shift from the protectionism of the post revolutionary period was characterised by
Mexico’s signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) with Canada and
the USA. In line with the move to make television content a free trade commodity, the PRI
sold ‘two of its stations to a recently formed network known as Television Azteca’ and in
so doing, significantly changed the landscape of the Mexican television industry (Quiñones
2001, 71).
This period constituted a turning point in Mexican telenovela history. Indeed, when then
president of Mexico Carlos Salinas de Gotari signed the North American Free Trade
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Agreement in December of 1992, and privatised the government owned channels 7 and 13
in 1994, it heralded both political and economic change in the television industry. As Vera
explained, ‘Televisa is the biggest television monopoly in the world because here
monopolist practices are not restricted’ (2007 pers. comm., 22 January). Mexico is a nation
characterized by a monopoly system of private ownership. Former Foreign Minister of
Mexico (2000-2003) Jorge Castañeda clarified the extent of this economic model in a 2006
interview;
We have a monopoly on television, a monopoly on telecommunications, a monopoly in
cement, a monopoly in political representation, monopolies in the unions, monopolies in
the bread and tortilla industry. Mexico is a country run by monopolies […] this corporate
and this monopoly system that has been running Mexico for 70 years (Castañeda).
Effectively ending the monopoly that Televisa had held in the Mexican television industry
since 1972, the deregulation in 1992 saw Televisa’s 12,000 annual hours of television (Fox
1997, 50) programming rivaled by new competitor Television Azteca.
Early on TV Azteca declared itself a producer of telenovelas that ‘make you think’. This
conscious opposition to Televisa as ‘dream factory’ challenged the censored version of the
nation characteristic of the PRI-Televisa era by incorporating previously inconceivable
themes. The ‘new wave’ of telenovelas de ruptura that followed narrated the nation’s battle
with drug trafficking, police corruption, urban violence and economic disparity. Female
characters were complex and unpredictable, compared to Televisa’s virgins and whores.
Indeed, TV Azteca’s mandate to reflect Mexico’s newfound ‘democracy’ saw its
telenovelas contrast greatly with those of Televisa.
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A key contributor to this process was TV Azteca’s early collaboration with the independent
production house Argos Produciones to help fill its television quota. Headed by Epigmenio
Ibarra, 18 Argos remains the leading independent production company in Mexico, and the
second largest in Latin America. Contracted by TV Azteca in 1995 Argos worked with the
conglomerate until 2000, ‘charged with conceiving, developing, casting, and finally
producing telenovelas on a project-by project basis’ (Hernández & McAnany 404).
Namesake of the Greek God of the thousand eyes, Argos provided a multifarious
alternative perspective of the nation, in an obvious reference to that traditionally
represented through the monolithic view from Televisa’s one-eyed logo. This new vision
focused on the ‘many Mexicos’ beyond the borders of the tidy nation.
Largely responsible for the realism that infused many of the early TV Azteca telenovelas, it
was Argos’ desire to alter the traditional Mexican telenovela schema that largely lead to the
changes in the Mexican telenovela industry. Influenced by the Brazilian and Venezuelan
telenovelas that they would watch as reporters on assignment in covering the civil war in
Nicaragua, Argos was later encouraged by Azteca to enter the telenovela industry, as part
of Azteca’s attempts to ‘confront Televisa’ (Covarrubias & Uribe 2000, 118). As Ibarra
explained, in Televisa ‘they looked for a moral order and we have been setting ourselves up
to fight this’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 125). These telenovelas de ruptura (‘telenovelas
de ruptura’) saw the inclusion of ‘social realism’ over fantasy. Epigmenio Ibarra, head of
Argos, Mexico’s largest independent production company explained in interview;
Army involvement in drug trafficking, [...] political crime and then in the context of the
family, [...] homosexuality, abortion. [...] From the moral point of view we have touched
18
Initially with three joint owners in Ibarra, Carlos Payán and Hernán Vera.
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everything. We married a priest, [...] made a fifty year old woman and a thirty-something
guy fall in love, we did an abortion on the screen, we had a transsexual, we found that the
root of corruption was the head of the secretary for public security, we denounced the drug
trafficking cartels of Wall Street and New Orleans and said that drug traffickers are named
Scout and MacKenzie Wallace instead of García or Fernández (2007, pers. comm., 9
February).
As ratings began to challenge the ‘Mexican Formula’ created by PRI-Televisa, scholars and
critics alike hailed a new era of Mexican television. Yet despite its revolutionary promise,
this movement to change the telenovela’s representational schema ultimately fizzled. This
is particularly evident in the female characters. Despite stronger female characterisation,
the dynamics of female mythification remain largely intact and as such, female citizenship
within the Mexican telenovela reflected the same dichotomy of exclusionary dynamics that
can be traced within the decades of Televisa telenovelas, PRI governance and their
perpetuation of centuries-old nationalist sentiment.
Consequently, Mexican cinema’s successful ‘maturation’ during the 1990s creates an
interesting contrast to the telenovela’s fate. As with the telenovela’s development, scholars
of this ‘new wave’ of Mexican cinema identify the impetus for change as the ‘deep crisis in
the unifying mythos of national identity’ within ‘the changing cultural geography’ of the
time (Rashkin 3). Here, ‘[i]n contrast to classical Mexican cinema's attention to historic
topics, mythmaking and epic national fictions’, the new wave of Mexican cinema provides
a ‘new national identity equation in which the historic themes of sex, gender, machismo,
and revolutionary ideology are faced with a more brutal, more honest reality’ (AcevedoMuñoz 41). Acevedo-Muñoz (2004) traces these changes within the female sexual and
narrative agency of such cinema hits as Y tu mamá también and finds that it reworks those
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gender narratives within the nation’s foundational myths, of which the stories of Malinche
and Guadalupe are key.
The reasons why Mexican cinema has renegotiated the inherently misogynist monolithic
notions of national identity whereas this study suggests that the telenovela has not are
inherently complex. Yet an analysis of the production and consumption ‘values’ of the
telenovela’s commercial industry suggests how such conservative nation-construction has
survived on the small screen. Focusing on interviews conducted with Mexican telenovela
industry professionals, scholars and critics in 2007 and 2008, the following chapter
explores the ‘unofficial’ ways in which female mythification within the cultural imaginary
continues to shape female characterisation and citizenship within the contemporary
telenovela. This work is integral to tracing the myriad ways in which the past continues into
the present, despite the promise of a different future.
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Chapter Three
Production and Consumption ‘Values’
within the ‘Bigger Picture’
Chapter Three: Production and Consumptioalues’ within the ‘Bigger Picture’
‘Without generalisation there is no tradition’
— Cuauhtémoc Blanco, Televisa
This chapter explores the ways in which production and consumption practices of the
contemporary Mexican telenovela are both shaped by and facilitate the processes of female
mythification within the cultural imaginary. Specifically, an exploration of industry
practices, beliefs, priorities and structures are considered in light of the historical
precedents of female mythification that are explored in Chapter Two. Yet a careful analysis
of the key aphorisms that telenovela industry professionals asserted during interviews in
2007 and 2008 — that Mexican telenovelas perpetuate conservative gender roles ‘because
that’s the genre’, ‘because it’s a commercial industry’ and ‘because that’s what the public
wants’ — highlights how the textual dynamics of the form as well as the ultimately fiscal
incentives that drive telenovela production, facilitate the cultural imaginary’s shaping of
both telenovela production and consumption practices.
Producing Company Values
A perusal of the plethora of publicity available for Televisa and TV Azteca indicates the
importance of social values to their brand. Indeed Televisa’s charity Fundación Televisa
(‘Televisa Foundation’)19 even has an annual National ‘Dia de los Valores’ (‘Values Day’)
19
Promoting social and cultural works that assist individual and community development , Fundación
Televisa’s mission statement can be found at <http://www.fundaciontelevisa.org/mision.html>.
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which it advertises using the catchphrase ‘¿Tienes el valor o te vale?’ (‘Do you have values or
don’t you care?’). With a series of ad campaigns that advocate giving way to pedestrians and
arriving to work early as well as refraining from littering, double-parking, using derogatory
terms and lying, the ‘dia de valores’ is complemented by such product tie-ins as the ‘values
wristbands’ which are modelled on the yellow rubber LiveStrong bracelet that was launched by
the Lance Armstrong Foundation in 2004. TV Azteca also has its own foundation entitled
Fundación Azteca (‘Azteca Foundation’) which similarly advocates such values as honesty,
effort and ‘love for Mexico’, and supports national social, cultural and ecological projects.20
Unsurprisingly then, for both of these conglomerates so heavily invested in the creation of an
ethical brand image, both production values and content are influenced by these company
‘values’, as they produce the moral parameters that they themselves advocate.
Televisa’s particular repertoire of values is not surprising considering its decades of affiliation
with the PRI and its nation-building ideology. Thus, although official censorship of television
content has ceased since the PRI government’s defeat in 2000 (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm, 9
February) Televisa’s production of values continues largely unchanged. Indeed, its relationship
with the Catholic Church has ensured that Televisa maintains the types of values that were
advocated by the PRI-Televisa union.
Televisa’s particular repertoire of values is not surprising considering its decades of affiliation
with the PRI and its nation-building ideology. Thus, although official censorship of television
content has ceased, Televisa’s production of values continues largely unchanged. Indeed, its
20
See <http://www.fundacionazteca.com/>.
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relationship with the Catholic Church has ensured that Televisa maintains the types of values
that were advocated by the PRI-Televisa union. Scholar Jorge González spoke of this
relationship when explaining;
In that time (1991) Televisa operated – de facto – as if it was the spokesperson for the Mexican
Episcopate. That power relationship was clearly informal, but so effective and so strong, that
with a simple phone call they were able “to suggest” to [Televisa’s] very owner (Azcárraga
Milmo) to halt the telenovela’s broadcast when it was already on air: 'This scene is immoral,'
and Mr. Ernesto Alonso (one of the two most important producers at the time within the
company) was obliged (against his will and vision) to advise the editor (Roberto Nino) to
correct it’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 February).
In addition to such examples, telenovela industry writers, directors and producers from
Televisa, TV Azteca and Argos Productions have emphasised the ongoing relationship between
Christianity and Mexican telenovela values. For these professionals, this relationship is ‘utterly
clear’ (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). Televisa’s Cuauhtémoc Blanco explained
that, ‘the telenovela is based upon a series of moral virtues […] [within which] is a
fundamentally Western Christian vision […] of good and evil’ (2007, pers. comm., 17
January). Consequently, at the heart of the telenovela are ‘Judaeo-Christian values from more
than two thousand years ago’ (Sanchez, L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February). So strong is this
foundation that ‘the rule has converted into a formula’ where ‘good and evil in constant battle
[and] at the end, exactly like a fable, good must receive its deserved reward and evil, its
necessary punishment’ (Blanco, C. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
The strength of this formula is evident as ‘the audience knows what to expect from each
character who will rarely display unexpected behaviour’ (Blanco, C. 2007, pers. comm., 17
January). Indeed, ‘even if the character has doubts. Even if they lose their way, there is a
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morality that will direct their conduct. And that morality will always determine the character’s
personality’ (Blanco,C. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). The relationship between this moral
schema and television’s emphasis is to ‘consolidate good values’ (Blanco, C. 2007, pers.
comm., 17 January) within society becomes clear here. Vera outlined the gendered nature of
this equation when clarifying that the telenovela’s religious moral schema means that ‘men are
allowed to have various relations; women are not. She must be a virgin; she must not sleep with
anyone, except for the knight in shining armour; she must be a perfect mother’ (2007, pers.
comm., 22 January).
Thus, although the fifteen-year-old TV Azteca does not share the same history of official
censorship as Televisa, it would seem that it advocates a similar repertoire of values within
its telenovela content. Indeed a 2001 TV Azteca publication entitled Los Valores de Grupo
Salinas (‘The Values of the Salinas Group’) explains that ‘Grupo Salinas is not only a
group of companies; it is a way of life. A way to view society’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 76).
Mirroring the nationalist sentiment of the Televisa-PRI alliance, it is in fact ‘[t]he project of
a nation sustained on concrete values’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 76). This publication clarifies
the types of values being promoted and the vision guiding the telenovela. Family is situated
as the first value that needs to be celebrated. It is for this reason that family ‘deserves
respect, value, and care’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 9).
Whilst the publication does not stipulate what constitutes ‘family’ within this context, the
subsequent assertion that values ‘are universal and permanent, that is, they transcend space
and time’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 86) suggests that the family promoted here is unlikely to
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deviate from those traditional configurations of the nuclear family, so endorsed within the
traditional telenovela schema. As with Televisa, the manifesto of TV Azteca productions
posits that ‘there is always a mission to maintain family unity’ (Serrano A. 2007, pers.
comm., 23 January). Indeed, ‘The Values of Grupo Salinas’ explains the dangers of losing
these values, and consequently the importance of maintaining their upkeep. Suggesting that
‘without values, we are at the mercy of fear, anxiety, exalted imagination and degradation’
TV Azteca rejects a ‘lack of values’, which would effectively ‘reduce our lives under the
pressure for change coming abroad’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 88). Exactly what this ‘change’
would bring is not articulated.
However, what was articulated within interviews with television industry professionals was the
‘self-censorship’ that operated within these conglomerates, which effectively replicated the
official censorship from the days of the PRI. Describing how inappropriate issues and
storylines would be discussed in house, Argos writer Laura Sosa explained that ‘more than a
government mandate, I think it’s a question of self-censorship by the companies themselves’
(2007, pers. comm., 5 February). Epigmenio Ibarra declared this ‘process of self-censorship’ so
‘brutal’ that it had inverted the official hierarchy, such that ‘before the Mexican Government
controlled and advised Televisa. Now television controls and advises the Mexican
Government’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Although those interviewed at Argos were most
candid about this process, TV Azteca producer Genoveva Martínez also clarified that ‘the
company has its editorial line through which it can consolidate key points of the company’s
philosophy’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). In addition to being ‘provida’ (‘pro-life’) which
she clarified meant both ‘that we are against abortion and euthanasia’, she explained that ‘we
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are for the free market’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). It was this point which most
resonated with others interviewed regarding the dynamics of ‘self-censorship’ within both
Televisa and TV Azteca.
Here, several candidates indicated that self-censorship was indicative not merely of
conservative values within the companies themselves, but moreover of economic priorities.
For Laura Sosa, adhering to the status quo was motivated by ‘a certain fear of shocking and
frightening off the public […] with themes that they might find confronting or unpleasant’
(2007, pers. comm., 5 February). Such production limitations are thus not entirely
indicative of a ‘paternalistic’ concern for audience ‘tastes’, but moreover are motivated by
the financial bottom line. Indeed, Martínez explained that one of TV Azteca’s most salient
‘production values’ was the ‘prerequisite that they have ratings, that the program is
profitable’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). For Martínez this meant two things; ‘that it
has ratings’ which ‘is totally up to the audience, because the audience is who gives you the
vote of “I’m going to watch, I’m going to provide the rating”’ and that ‘there are sponsors
who want to promote their products with us […] because the program has rating’ (2007,
pers. comm., 22 February).
With this clarity of ‘production values’ in mind, the assertion by several interviewees that
the Mexican telenovela maintained a conservative repertoire of values ‘because it’s an
industry’ took on particular significance. Thus whilst, for scholar Ana Zermeño, ‘there are
little lights every so often, of people who perhaps could contribute something [new]’ there
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is not however ‘enough force amongst those who produce and oversee, to imagine other
alternatives’ (2007, pers. comm., 30 January).
Martínez provided one heartbreaking example of this when explaining the production saga
around Tan Infinito como el Desierto (‘As Infinite as the Desert’ TV Azteca 2004). This
mini-series attempted to address Mexico’s internationally recognised human rights
emergency. Based upon the femicide in the Mexican border city of Juárez, it narrated the
context within which over hundreds of young women and girls have been abducted, raped,
murdered and their bodies mutilated since 1993, with thousands more missing. For
Martínez, the program was a deouncement, as ‘definitely we needed to denounce the
situation in Juárez in order to pressure the authorities’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February).
Furthermore, the series’ examination of the violence against women in Ciudad Juárez
provided the public opportunity to counter the negative discourse regarding female
sexuality that had marred the official response to these murders.
Traditionally the dead women of Ciudad Juárez have been painted by the Northern
Mexican authorities as irresponsible young women who have run off with their boyfriends,
or as prostitutes who ran out of luck. Julia Monárrez Fragoso highlights this negligence in
her article on serial sexual femicide in Ciudad Juárez when quoting the official assertion by
the Chihuahuan Assistant Prosecution Office that
it is important to note that the behavior of some of the victims does not correspond with
those established characteristics of the moral order, being there has been excessive
frequenting into the late hours of the night of entertainment establishments not appropriate
for their age in some cases, as well an inadequate care and abandonment of the family unit
in which they have lived (Monárrez Fragoso 2002, 3).
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Even then President Vincente Fox ignored the importance of the investigations when he
declared in 2005 that the majority of Ciudad Juárez cases of violence against women had
been solved, and the perpetrators brought to justice (Ruiz 2005, n.p.). Accusing the media
of ‘rehashing’ the subject of the unresolved murders, he declared that the crime in Juárez
was not disproportionate to other parts of the country such that ‘the case of Juárez is one of
those that we must attend to and that we are attending to […] [B]ut we also must look at it
in its proper dimension’ (cited in Ruiz 2005, n.p.). Despite the ongoing fight for justice by
their loved ones and human rights groups, the horrific violence against these young women
had remained largely hidden from the public eye, and as such, national public pressure for
their vindication remained negligible.
Furthermore, the potential for providing a prime time televisual forum for such communityminded projects about the reality of violence against women in Mexico, and possibly a
more complex representation of female narratives within television fiction, was
compromised by the lack of financial support. Despite the critical importance of this
project, which could have garnered positive publicity for its sponsors, this series failed to
attract any sponsorship. Although the series went to air, the sponsors’ boycott proved
disastrous, further ostracising the victims of this violence and compromising financial
support for such community minded projects.
When asked why the sponsors refrained, Martínez diplomatically replied;
The truth is that I can’t speak for them, as an advertiser. What I saw was that they didn’t
want to associate their product with something so tragic. If you sell beautiful blue earrings,
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you don’t want your blue earrings to be associated with such a dramatic and tragic issue
(2007, pers. comm., 22 February).
Identifying this phenomenon as ultimately a conflict of ‘intentions’, Martínez clarified that
‘television’s function is neoliberal, which means to earn the most that is possible (which is
obviously the goal of the sponsor, because he wants to sell his product)’ (2007, pers.
comm., 22 February). When such fiscal ‘intentions’ conflict with the educational
‘intentions’ of programs such as Tan Infinito como el Desierto, ‘this is a very difficult
balance to deal with’ (Martínez G. 2007, pers. comm., 22 February). For Martínez ‘it was
an altruistic program in the sense that TV Azteca incurred all of the costs, [and] never
recouped them’ because ‘Ricardo Salinas is a very socially responsible person, who is very
interested in México, who is a person who wants México to get better’ (2007, pers. comm.,
22 February). As such, ‘that program about the deaths in Juárez was something that he
requested. And when he realised that it would not have any sponsors he said “go ahead, it
doesn’t matter”’ (Martínez G. 2007, pers. comm., 22 February).
But it did matter, for despite this altruism, it was not a plausible business strategy for a
commercial television conglomerate. Martínez reiterated this point, explaining that; ‘This
television has to be a commercial television, our function is to entertain and inform the
viewer but we can’t give ourselves the luxury of not having ratings, we can’t do that, that
isn’t our role, we aren’t a state or educational channel or the like’ (2007, pers. comm., 22
February). Such sentiments are familiar within Televisa’s system of values, with Azcárraga
Jean on record as stating that ‘this is a business. The fundamental thing, the face of this
company is the production of entertainment, then information. To educate is the
government’s job, not Televisa’s’ (Sinclair 1999, 50).
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Once again, TV Azteca’s and Televisa’s ‘company values’ see an investment in the ‘value’
of high profit margins. Thus despite ‘good intentions’, the possibility of long-term
investment in the representation of ‘alternative’ social and cultural issues such as the deaths
in Ciudad Juárez, is effectively kept in check by the sponsors’ reticence to brand something
so ‘tragic’.
‘Because it’s an Industry’Patronising Values of a Commercial Business
The commercial nature of the Mexican telenovela industry shapes the ideology reflected
within the narratives of these cultural products. Álvaro Cueva explained that besides the
power of the companies themselves is the power of the sponsors. They are very powerful,
and they exert control over shaping the ideological parameters of telenovela content (2007,
pers. comm., 12 January). As Vera said, ‘what predominates are the laws of the market’
and ‘the Money comes from the advertisers, doesn’t it?’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January).
As the determining factor in the establishment of television in Mexico, the commercial
broadcasting model continues to shape the contemporary televisual business in what might
be considered its ‘raison d’être’. The pervasiveness of advertising within telenovela
programming is evident of this industrial imperative. Counting for 60% of gross advertising
spending in the mid nineties, commercial television is big business in Mexico (Winders et
al. 2005, 89). Even with the more recently volatile state of markets, as evident with
Televisa’s reported downturn in advertising revenue in 2007 when ‘[s]ales at broadcasting
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unit fell 15.5% to $456.6 million’ (O’Boyle 2007b, n.p.) due to a drop in consumer
spending, advertising remains a consistent for television viewers. In fact, with 18% of
telenovela broadcast time allowed for advertising, it is no surprise that a 2005 survey
conducted by Initiative Futures Worldwide found that Mexico has the fourth most
‘cluttered’ commercial television landscape in the world, after the United States, China and
Japan (Hughes 2005, 122).
This is glaringly evident when viewing Mexican television programming from morning talk
shows to news hours and afternoon gossip programming where product placement and
special sponsor spots are de rigueur. Yet even within afternoon, evening and primetime
fictional content, advertising is rife and in particular ‘the blurring of the lines between
advertisement and entertainment is common in the world of telenovelas’ (Beard 2003, 86).
Discussing this phenomenon in regards to the ratings hit La Fea más Bella (‘The Most
Beautiful Ugly Girl’ Televisa 2006) Laura Sanchez explained the logical relationship
between high ratings, brand recognition and the fictional characters who engage in nonsequitur advertising through the dialogue. As she said, it’s a way to advertise everything,
through the characters’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February).21
Critics have long identified the power harnessed by the companies investing billions of
pesos into the television industry as Le Gallo laments, ‘the great power the private sector
21
By likening the interview set up to a scene in the telenovela Sanchez explained ‘[i]t had very high ratings
and suddenly advertisers became interested in say you and I- who are the secretaries- advertising in this
conversation a product, say glasses. So I say to you “hey what gorgeous glasses you bought. Hey where…
god they look great…hey tell me [where you bought them]”. “Hey thanks, I got them at the Optometrist
Devlin” and so on. “So where is that optometrist?” “There’s heaps all over the place.” And we’re doing a
commercial right?’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February).
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has acquired bit by bit, has contributed to giving Mexican television its primary
characteristic as a commercial enterprise, to the detriment of a public service television
model’ (Le Gallo 1988, 20). However tangible evidence confirming the nature of this
power in determining the parameters for telenovela production is relatively scarce. As such,
the revealing anecdotes provided by telenovela producers throughout the interviews provide
an unprecedented insight into the ‘patronising values’ of this commercial industry.
Amongst these, Hernán Vera described the conflict experienced with the principal sponsor
– a major international car company – during the filming of Argos’ La Vida en el Espejo,
(‘Life in the Mirror’) which aired on TV Azteca in 1999;
The moment that he says to his father, ‘look dad, I’m gay, I’m in love with him, that’s why
I’m not going to marry the girl that you want me to marry’, in that moment; two days after
we were invited to a meeting with the representative of [the car company] and the
representative of the channel’s marketing department, where they asked us to please get
someone to steal the car in the story because it was […] policy not to associate its brand
with gay issues (2007, pers. comm., 22 January).
Argos experienced further censorship on behalf of its sponsors during the filming of its
1998 telenovela Tentaciones (‘Temptations’). Narrating the story of ‘a handsome priest
whose religious vocation is endangered when he falls in love with a woman who turns out
to be his half sister’ (Hernández & McAnany 2001, 408) the telenovela caused immense
controversy in the Mexican Catholic Church. Taking to the streets in protest, many
demanded it be taken off air. Sponsored by Ponds and Pan Bimbo —Mexico’s monopoly
bread company which forms part of a right wing lobby group entitled ‘A Favor de lo
Mejor’ (‘For the best of the Media’) — the sponsors quickly mobilized. Exerting pressure
on TV Azteca, they ensured that Tentaciones was canned. With an initial schedule of two
hundred episodes, the controversial telenovela ended after just seventy seven, of which
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forty were reshot to accommodate the sponsors’ concerns (Hernández & McAnany 2001,
408). According to Álvaro Cueva, ‘they didn’t even try to change it; they just took it off
air’ (2007, pers. comm., 12 January).
Considering Argos’ experience negotiating the censorship of their ‘telenovelas of rupture’,
it is not surprising they were most candid about the restrictions that a commercially
conservative industry places on such content. For several of those interviewed, it is the
obsession with ratings and profits, which creates such restrictions. Asserting that ‘we’re not
part of a cultural industry; we’re part of an entertainment industry […] in which one invests
money and expects a return’ Ibarra explained that ‘organisations like Televisa, like
Television Azteca […] are based upon the logic of repetition’ (2007, pers. comm., 9
February). Clarifying that ‘homogeneity is what makes Televisa successful’ (2007, pers.
comm., 9 February) Ibarra argued that scope for innovation, including the revision of
exclusionary gender representations, is limited within the telenovela industry. Paralysed by
their quest for commercial success, the big conglomerates cannot ‘afford’ to revise the
traditional ‘Mexican formula’ as ‘where there is not security is when one is experimenting,
breaking [the rules] and without any certainty’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
This industrial form is not however merely the product of a top-down mandate from
executives. Rather, ‘fear of failure and fear of expressing new ideas and fear of confronting
the television machine that ultimately dominates those who make telenovelas’ (Ibarra E.
2007, pers. comm., 9 February) sees writers internalise these restrictions. So whilst
government censorship does not provide the impetus for fear in the newly competitive
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industry, ‘writers must offer […] solvency, security, [and] certainty that this story,
complies with the minimum key requirements of what constitutes the telenovela format’
(Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).
So fundamental is Televisa’s investment in the secure ratings of the ‘Mexican formula’ that
for Ibarra ‘whoever tries something new at Televisa is destined to fail’ (2007, pers. comm.,
9 February). Yet according to Ibarra, ‘organisations like Televisa’ do not even have ‘the
ability to change’ because ‘they have neither the flexibility […] the interest nor the capacity
to imagine a different interaction with the public’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
Emphasising the importance of size and time to this equation, he states that
A large structure is powerful, overwhelming, but slow. Azteca and Televisa are slow; in
their production, in their ability to innovate. We are flexible, fast, small, we shrink and
grow. And that allows us, even with the barrel of the budget pointing at our head, to work
differently. And the main thing is that being small, there is a sense of creative ownership of
the project that employees at the big channels don’t have (Ibarra, E. 2007, pers. comm., 9
February).
Álvaro Cueva argued that the speed required to produce endless hours of programming for
the conglomerates’ various channels was the most notable commercial factor for the
perpetuation of a dichotomous female characterisation within the contemporary telenovela.
As he explained, ‘what most favours the telenovela decree in Mexico is the vertiginous
speed of their filming. Everything is so fast and so mechanical that there is no way to stop
to think about making little changes’ (Cueva Á. 2007, pers. comm., 12 January). Indeed the
use of the ‘apuntador’ (audio prompt) or ‘ciccaro’ (pea) that sits inside the actors’ ears and
dictates their lines is indicative of this production line quality within these companies.
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Televisa’s self-nomination as the ‘fábrica de los sueños’ (‘dream factory’) takes on
increased significance in this context.
In contrast to such ‘factories’, Ibarra argued that Argos ‘has time to experiment’ with new
formulas of representation (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Although conceding that the
‘commercial values’ to which Argos has been subjected by TV Azteca and Telemundo in
the United States have made them compromise their vision, Ibarra was adamant that ‘even
making concessions, there are certain production values that you find in Argos novelas that
are not in the novelas of TV Azteca’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Thus ‘even though
we tell a seemingly very traditional story, you’re always going to find [alternative]
ingredients’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., 9 February). In fact, Ibarra credits this as a
powerful way of subverting the status quo as ‘one has to play them at their own game’ in
order to come out the winner (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).22
This approach has seen Argos achieve such feats as inserting ‘the most progressive and
polemic plot-line that we have ever done, in the most traditional novela that we have done’
(2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Inserting ‘not only a transsexual, but a transsexual and his
boyfriend’ within Daniela (2002) Argos reworked the traditional Mexican family of this
Cinderella narrative (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). So canny was this approach that upon
telenovela ending, ‘the father, the mother, the Virgin of Guadalupe, the transsexual, and his
22
In interview, Ibarra was proud of Argos’ independence, stating that ‘nobody in Mexico, nobody, has
survived more that four telenovela outside of Azteca and Televisa’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Indeed,
according to Ibarra, ‘these are the rule of the monopoly’ because ‘when they see the gross profit and the risk,
they decide to withdraw’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
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boyfriend’ all embrace and ‘nobody even realised’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).23
Stating that economic success is not important for Argos, Ibarra explained that the most
important ideological and structural difference to the ‘big two’ is the creative, as opposed to
financial bottom line; ‘we are crazy. I tell the writers and directors “let’s do what we like,
so that we feel proud. If it is successful; great. If not, whatever”’ (2007, pers. comm., 9
February). As such, ‘we produce distinct telenovelas because we are distinct’ (Ibarra E.
2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
Yet regardless of this picture of subversion painted by Ibarra, the cooption of television by
commercial interests is hard to fight. He clarified this when explaining the core flaws of the
industry’s origins;
We made the box an idiot box through omission and action. Omission on the part of the left
who thought it was a tool of imperialism. And action on the part of the right who converted
a formidable tool for communication into the display window of their shops. Omission by
the activists, action by the merchants. And all sanctioned by the government who wanted
an instrument of ideological reproduction conducive to its image (2007, pers. comm., 9
February).
Comparing Mexico’s television history with that of Brazil and Colombia, both Ibarra and
Mejía outlined the importance of left-wing literary origins to a television industry capable
of producing diverse narratives. As Mejía explained, ‘the Brazilian telenovela breaks all of
the rules’ because ‘the success of Brazilian telenovelas, is that they are based on literature.
From the works of great authors’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). Consequently, ‘Brazil
23
In another example, ‘we did Gitanas [‘Gypsies’] (…) and it seemed hyper-traditional but we added the
story of a priest, who questions his calling. He falls in love, leaves the habit and gets married. In fact, he
doesn’t just marry, he has a child. We made that plot acceptable. That same plot that four years before, caused
us a spectacular failure. (Tentaciones.) Because we came at it directly. In Gitanas we came at it from the side’
(2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
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has shown that it can have a prostitute as a telenovela protagonist and still have a powerful
telenovela that captures the audience’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). In comparison, by
‘refraining from participating in the communication phenomenon of the twentieth century’,
the left in Mexico enabled Televisa to become ‘the hired assassin of the Government’
(2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
Within these accounts, it would seem then that the government, the Catholic Church, and the
commercial industry all determine the conservative values that continue to monopolise the
exclusionary configuration of female characterisation/citizenship within the Mexican
telenovela. However, to conclude this analysis here would patronise the millions of viewers
throughout the world who everyday tune in to make the Mexican telenovela one of the most
successful transnational programming forms in television history. Indeed, the importance of the
audience in shaping the perpetuation of female mythification within the telenovela of the
twenty-first century should not be undermined. Providing the ratings at this commercial
industry’s heart, it would in fact appear to be the deciding factor in the telenovela equation and
many interviewed confirmed this. The following section reviews the role of the audience as the
vital component to a comprehensive understanding of those myriad factors contributing to the
Mexican telenovela’s perpetuation of female mythification within the contemporary telenovela.
Consuming Values- ‘Because that’s what the Public wants’
Integral to industry perspectives on the perpetuation of female mythification within the
Mexican telenovela is that they produce what audiences avidly consume. Indeed, the refrain
‘es lo que quiere el publico’ (‘that’s what the public wants’) appeared throughout the
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interviews with Televisa and TV Azteca professionals. The logic espoused was that ‘If
telenovelas didn’t give audiences what they want, they wouldn’t exist’ (Cueva 2001, 111).
Indeed, for Cueva, ‘the twenty-first century’ audience can ‘increasingly demand high
definition, stereo sounds, star power, faster rhythm and drama per episode, more thematic
variety, more respect for minorities, more human rights, and if desired, more recourse to
tradition’ (Cueva 2001, 112). Adamant that ‘we know the audience’s tastes’ (Martínez G.
2007, pers. comm., 8 February) these professionals asserted that audience tastes are verified
through ratings and study groups. Tracing what they deemed to be a direct correlation
between Nielsen reports and public choice, they ‘base their criteria on these studies because
they are a base that provide a sense of security’. As such, ‘those studies have a lot of
influence, in terms of decision-making, when one is experimenting with something or when
the story is not rating well’ (Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).
Others however, were dubious about the relationship between ratings and audience ‘tastes’.
Cueva asserted that ‘it is very easy to talk about the people but where is the study that says
what the people want? [And] when did they ask them?’ (2007, pers. comm., 12 January)
Marcela Mejía questioned the viability of the methodology for collecting ratings, saying
They just assume their ratings and the rating is very relative, such that in a country where
there are one hundred twenty million people where at least one hundred million watching
TV, the ratings are measured using a sample of 400 households (0.0004%). You cannot
speak of a significant sample. Moreover, the sample is chosen [...] because those who are
looking at the ratings are those advertisers checking if their products can penetrate the
market. By no means can that be considered a target, a profile of an audience. And they
make very few focus groups, of twenty or so people. No way is that representative. The
sample is very insignificant. [...] And then your program is based on this rating, exclusively
on these ratings (2007, pers. comm, 17 January).
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Questioning the validity of even measuring such a limited pool of options, some
interviewees suggested that people watch because there is nothing else to choose from. As
scholar Bustos Romero argued ‘if they have never been offered a different option… what
can they say?’ (2007, pers. comm., 19 January). Ibarra agreed, stating that ratings are
deceptive as ‘the people like what is on air, but the day that we give them a better
television, […] the television that they deserve, they will like that too’ (2007, pers. comm.,
9 February). Mejía proffered that ‘when the public says: "This story is a bit more complex
than what I am used to seeing but I understood it [...] then the viewer feels good knowing
he is intelligent’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). For Serrano this goes against the ‘myth
that the people are lazy, that the people are stupid, that the people don’t want to see more
[…] and that one has to give the people what they want’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).
However, despite these opinions, many of these same interviewees admitted that there is
little opportunity to put them to the test.
To begin, the difficulty of providing a ‘better television’ for ‘the people’ is hampered by the
ruthlessly commercial nature of the industry. Indeed, as González explained, audiences who
are accustomed to one particular type of television have little time to adapt to new
programming as ‘if the telenovela does not take off in the first fifteen episodes […] they
either stage a complete intervention on the content and the structure or they terminate it’
(2007, pers. comm., 15 February).
Cueva has also highlighted the difficulty of reading telenovela ratings as an unproblematic
reflection of ‘what the public wants’ due to this ‘absence of other genres within
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programming’ (1998, 174). For scholar Ana Zermeño this is a class issue relating to access
to television beyond the free-to-air broadcast model, as ‘the percentage of the population
that has cable in Mexico is low’ (2007, pers. comm., 30 January). In this way, it would
seem that there is a bifurcation of the television public in Mexico, determined by ‘those that
have and those that do not have access to pay television’ (Zermeño A. 2007, pers. comm.,
30 January). As such, many watch telenovelas because that is the programming available
on free to air television. For Zermeño, until social equality changes, this population ‘is
forced to watch the programming of Televisa and TV Azteca’ (2007, pers. comm., 30
January).
These insights assist a comprehensive picture of the audience’s role in facilitating the
perpetuation of female mythification within the contemporary Mexican telenovela.
However, without further consideration of the dynamics of audience ‘tastes’, they risk
denying audience agency in engaging with these texts by choice. This has been a common
trope in narratives about audience engagement with telenovelas. Indeed, since structuralist
discourses in the 1970s began to read media as an ideological state apparatus with direct
effects on its audience, this issue of audience agency has been prevalent within analyses of
telenovela content.
Those scholars working within the poststructuralist tradition have attempted to vindicate
the telenovela audience from such causal models by framing them as a diverse group
capable of polysemic textual readings. The emphasis on active audience reception over the
past two decades has promoted audience agency, where critical and capable, albeit massive
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popular audiences replace passive reception models. According to this argument, they are
able to ‘establish sufficient distance’ to ‘enjoy the realistic story as a fictional text’
(Miranda 2001, 193). Interviews with those involved in the Mexican component of the
groundbreaking transnational study on audience reception that was carried out by scholars
at the Center for Social Research at the University of Colima in the nineteen nineties24
elucidated the logistics of this approach to audiences, as González explained
the idea was first to understand […] what the dynamic of daily life is within a Mexican
home […] by conducting an ethnographic study for approximately eight months practically
living with those people […] in order to understand what happens with television and third,
once established, to understand what happens with telenovelas (2007, pers. comm., 15
February).
For González, the findings of this study ‘exploded many myths’ about the telenovela,
including the gender, socio-economic, and age demographics of its viewers (2007, pers.
comm., 15 February). These researchers take pains to emphasise audience agency through
the ways in which watching telenovelas is an active pastime. Here, emphasis on the
negotiation of the telenovela viewing experience — such as the location of the television
set, who watches what when, and whether other activities occur simultaneously with
viewing — suggest that audiences actively engage with the telenovela form.
Yet despite the focus on an ‘active’ audience model, recourse to an effects model seems
inevitable. In one example, scholars at the University of Colima argued for the possibility
that the telenovela Mirada de Mujer (‘The Look of a Woman’) would enable female
audiences to question ‘their role as wives and mothers […] as a means of conceiving
24
This study was conducted by various teams of telenovela scholars in Brazil, Peru, Colombia and Mexico.
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alternate ways of living their lives’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 1998, n.p.). Despite this
obvious reference to the telenovela’s ideological effects, these were the same scholars who
advocated for a rejection of the ‘effects’ model of audience reception when publishing their
findings from the transnational study on telenovela reception. The lines between ‘passive’
and ‘active’ viewing seem somewhat arbitrary.
Here, despite their conflation of these ‘oppositional’ models, such studies do little to move
beyond a reductionist model of audience textual engagement as either passive or active.
This is only exacerbated by contemporary cultural and media studies’ apparent trepidation
in re-examining the logistics of television texts as ideological tools that might ‘affect’
certain social-cultural behaviours or beliefs. From the nineties onwards, the dearth of
published works that examine the interface between specific telenovela content and
audience viewing reflects this.
Unfortunately, this oversight prevents the development of a more nuanced and holistic
reading of how viewers negotiate telenovelas within the ideological context of their
everyday lives. Although these viewer voices have not been captured in this study, it is
beneficial to flesh out this ideological context, as the ways in which viewing is shaped by
the larger cultural context remains unexplored. Consequently, without a consideration of
how audiences might actively negotiate ideological texts yet remain influenced by the
ideological messages that they convey, audience reception theory does little to move
beyond the construction of viewing as either conducting ‘semiotic guerilla warfare’ (Fiske
1989, 18) or as passive reception of dominant ideology. The following sections avoid
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recourse to passive or active models of audience reception, by situating telenovela viewing
within the wider cultural context for viewing.
Because that’s the Cultural Imaginary
In the same way that the company and sponsor values found in telenovela production are
shaped by the very cultural imaginary whose parameters they help to shape, so too does the
audience influence what is available onscreen. Indeed, ‘meanings are not simply imposed
on viewers’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 281) such that even if viewers do not actively engage in
‘semiotic guerilla warfare’, they nonetheless negotiate these meanings within their own
knowledge frameworks. Arguably, within this process, the parameters of telenovela
ideology are further consolidated; consistent with the audience’s understanding of the
cultural imaginary, these ideologies are legitimised as ‘natural’.
Vek Lewis’ work on telenovela content and audience reception is particularly useful here.
Acknowledging that ‘the issue of representation, these days, is infrequently addressed’
(Lewis 2008, 3) he confirms the apparent reluctance within academia to explore telenovela
content and the ways in which notions of its ‘ideological effects’ might work alongside the
active model for audience reception. To counter this he begins by referencing Stuart Hall’s
model of active reception, through which ‘asymmetries of meaning may occur en route in
the dispersal of a product and its reception’ and within which ‘oppositional or counterhegemonic readings are always a possibility’ (Hall cited in Lewis 2008, 3).
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However, Lewis stresses that ‘this cannot discount instances in which the knowledge
frameworks of dominant culture align with the viewing public’s own available frameworks,
in which the visualising and interpreting of representational phenomena retain real
symmetry’ (Lewis 2008, 3) (Italics not in the original). Important here is the notion that
those frameworks ‘available’ to the viewing public may influence telenovela reception.
This is not an unprecedented notion, as Chris Barker suggests, ‘audience activity can
deconstruct “preferred” meaning only when alternative discourses are available’ (Barker
2005, 329). Consequently, telenovelas ‘construct, authorise and activate established models
of perception in their representational forms, as well as suggest certain ‘routes’ of
interpretation’, because of the pre-existing ‘beliefs that people hold about phenomena’
(Lewis 2008, 3).
Thus by acknowledging that audiences acquire their ‘mental models’ and ‘strategies of
interpretation from the discursive forms that structure their social and informational worlds’
(Lewis 2008, 3) of which the Mexican telenovela is but one, the stalemate between
‘passive’ and ‘active’ audience reception can be avoided. Indeed, this ‘holistic’ approach
illustrates not an ‘ideological effects model’ for television content, but rather the role of the
cultural imaginary in shaping audience engagement with telenovela content. Here, the
cultural continuum that shapes both consumption and production practices becomes clear,
such that the telenovela’s cultural ‘codings’ ‘might not obtain their power to frame and
restrict meanings were it not for the shared […] commonality of mental models and
interpretative routines shared by producers and consumers […] found in the context in
which the novela was made’ (Lewis 2008, 15).
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Evidently, as both a product and proponent of those ideological parameters of the cultural
imaginary, telenovelas become ‘intertexts for reading both other media texts and the social
text’ (Lewis 2008, 24). Constituting an important cultural site ‘through which viewers
make sense of modern life and current events’ (Lewis 2008, 24) they are for Christina Slade
the ‘privileged form’ through which ‘human, emotional and domestic life’ can be
understood (Slade 2003, 8). Such commentary is particularly insightful as it is here that the
‘domestic’ nature of this ‘emotional’ life is crucial to the place of the telenovela within the
cultural imaginary.
The telenovela’s pervasive presence within television programming mirrors the inexorable
passing of time throughout the day. Programmed from midday to midnight, five days a
week, throughout the broadcast television spectrum, telenovelas and their stars also feature
on morning, afternoon and evening talk shows, variety shows and gossip shows. They
appear in cross-promotional material such as television commercials, charity drives, print
publications and on billboards. They appear in music videos and make special appearances
at shopping malls and inaugurations throughout the nation, which in turn are televised on
daily gossip shows. Furthermore, this ‘insertion’ into the texture of daily life (Lopez 1995,
257) takes place through the months-long narrative trajectory that mirror ‘the slow, cyclical
rhythms of family life’ (Allen 1995, 11). Yet arguably, it is the audience’s familiarity and
engagement with the telenovela’s narrative structure and emotional excess that results from
this pervasive domesticity, that best secures the its currency within the cultural imaginary.
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An analysis of narrative form and structure is crucial to understanding the ways in which
exclusionary gender discourses continue to circulate within the Mexican telenovela,
through both consumption and production practices. For audiences, an analysis of the
‘certain ‘routes’ of interpretation’ (Lewis 2008, 3) or particular viewing position
encouraged by the narrative helps to clarify audience engagement with these texts. Here,
what might be called the dynamics of ‘privileged reading’ within the telenovela genre are
integral in shaping ‘what the public wants’. Consequently, an exploration of their dynamics
assists an understanding of the audience’s contribution to the perpetuation of those
conservative gender values inherent to nationalist narratives that continue within the
contemporary Mexican telenovela. However, an understanding of these narrative dynamics
also highlights production logic in relation to audience ratings and the commercial viability
of the telenovela form.
‘Because that’s the Genre’
Audience engagement with telenovela texts is far more complicated, and is influenced by
the narrative structure of the melodramatic telenovela genre itself. Indeed, the refrain
‘because that’s the genre’ appeared time and again throughout the interviews, from
Televisa, TV Azteca and Argos professionals, to explain the perpetuation of narrative
tropes of good versus evil female sexuality within the contemporary Mexican telenovela.
At first this exhortation seemed to confirm the commercial industry’s reticence to risk new
formulae that might not secure the ratings success of the ‘Mexican formula’. Recourse to
the genre’s traditional formula signals this conservatism. However, upon closer
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consideration of the role of the audience in the continued mythification of women within
the telenovela, it is indeed the audience’s engagement with “the genre” that facilitates this
schema.
In order to determine the dynamics of this engagement, it is necessary to compare the
narrative structure of the Mexican telenovela with that of Anglo soap operas. Taking her
lead from the work of Western feminist scholars, Cynthia Duncan attempts this task in her
1995 study on ‘Hispanic Soap Opera and the Pleasures of Female Spectatorship.’ Situating
the Anglo soap opera as a site of empowerment for female viewers, Duncan writes, ‘One of
the most obvious contradictions of the genre is that while soap operas appear to support
patriarchal authority on the level of plot and characterization, they function at the structural
level to empower the female viewer’ (Duncan 1995, 85). Indeed for Duncan, the female
viewer ‘possesses the kind of training and knowledge that is required to read the genre best’
as these narratives ‘encode feminine ways of seeing and knowing’ (Duncan 1995, 85).
Here, she is best ‘able to assume a privileged viewing position, or occupy a space to which
she normally has little access’ (Duncan 1995, 85), thereby playing ‘an active role in the
production of meaning’ (Duncan 1995, 91). This debate has long circulated within US and
British film and television scholarship; perhaps most famously in the discussion of the
Hollywood film Stella Dallas (1937) by many feminist scholars in the nineteen eighties
(Gledhill 1986).
Following this logic, Duncan argues for the empowerment of the telenovela’s female
audiences through the engagement with form over content. However, there are key
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structural differences between Hispanic and Anglo soap operas that derail Duncan’s
subversive reading of ‘patriarchal’ content against the ‘female’ form of the telenovela.
Specifically, Duncan’s fails to recognize the ways in which the closed nature of the
Mexican telenovela creates an entirely different structural dynamic than the open text of the
Anglo soap opera. Unlike the absence of fixed ideological meaning within the soap opera’s
open narrative (in some cases over five decades) which enables a polysemic reading of
content, the inherently ‘tidy’ nature of the telenovela narrative closes down such
possibilities (Estill 2000, 76). Presenting ‘complete narrative closure’ with the ‘happy
ending’ within which the good are rewarded and the bad punished, the telenovela largely
discourages the audience from gazing ‘into the characters’ non-narrated future’ (Estill
2000, 76).
The dynamics of privileged reading facilitate this ‘closure’ of polysemic textual readings.
Suggesting ‘certain routes of interpretation’, the telenovela narrative is best viewed through
a complicit gaze. Collectively, its facilitation of the audience’s emotional engagement with
the characters through music, Manichaean characterisation, and ultimately moral justice,
encourage the audience to follow the narrative conventions in order to receive a certain
‘satisfaction’ upon telenovela ending (Estill 2001, 172-3). Here, months of support for the
protagonist are rewarded with the respective ‘happy ending’ granted the heroine. Audiences
are similarly vindicated for their rejection of the villain when she finally receives her
comeuppance. As Olguín summarises, ‘the happy ending for the good characters and the
punishment for the villains, results in a clear morality for the viewer, who at telenovela end
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remains gratified and satisfied, because each has received what they deserve’ (Olguín 1993,
23).
Robert C. Allen suggests the drive towards the total narrative closure facilitates this viewer
identification with the moral parameters of the ‘happy ending’, by privileging ‘the final
episodes institutionally, textually, and in terms of audience expectation and satisfaction’
(Allen 1995, 23). Indeed, the particular teleological thrust of closed serials ‘offer[s] viewers
the opportunity to look back upon the completed text and impose on it some kind of moral
or ideological order’ (Allen 1995, 23). Aided by the Manichean moral prejudice that is
inherent to the romantic love story’s ‘happy ending’, this order becomes increasingly
normalised within the cultural imaginary. As Palmira Olguín writes, ‘this is how the
telenovela maintains an implicit morality that whether intentionally or not, permanently
reinforces traditional values’ (Olguín 1993, 23).
Evidently, despite Duncan’s claims, there is no ‘privileged’ or ‘emancipatory’ viewing
position for female audiences. Rather, the narrative structure allows the form to facilitate
audience engagement with the ideological content. Considering the relationship between
these textual dynamics and the knowledge frameworks of the cultural imaginary, it is easy
to see how exclusionary rubrics of representation may well be ‘what the public wants’.
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Because that’s the Genre… of a People
Further to the notion that telenovela industry professionals produce ‘what the public wants’,
is the enjoyment that viewing these television texts provides, a dynamic that scholars have
associated with the viewers’ purportedly cultural affinity with the melodramatic form.
Explaining their ‘cultivated love of melodrama and scandal’ (Lewis 2008, 19) many
scholars and telenovela industry professionals have asserted that ‘Mexicans have
melodrama in their blood’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., February 9). Referencing MartinBarbero, Barrera and Bielby suggest that the reason for this is because melodrama
‘contemporizes the oral traditions of the continent that have existed since pre-Columbian
times’ (Barrera and Bielby 2004, 5). Consequently, ‘the success and popularity of
telenovelas throughout Latin America is due in large part to reliance upon a narrative form
that deeply articulates the cultural imagination of the continent’ (Barrera and Bielby 2004,
5). Similarly for Cueva, the passion for melodrama is an articulation of the passion that has
‘dominated’ Latin American for centuries (Cueva 2001, 14).25
Without engaging with the romanticism of these narratives, it is possible to see how the
‘currency’ of the melodramatic form within Mexican cultural products could generate an
affinity with the genre. Similar to Duncan’s assertion that audiences are empowered
through their knowledge of the telenovela form and structure, it is possible to argue that
telenovela audiences exercise
‘complicity’ with the telenovela narrative due to their
25
As Cueva writes, ‘Latin America has always been dominated by passion, the passion of those who arrived
to conquer it, of those who liberated it, of these who fought to define it, to transform it, to challenge it. From
the Rio Bravo to the Patagonia, from the Caribbean to the Andes, there is a land that lives eternally
impassioned: the passion of Christ, revolutionary passion. The ties that bind Mexico with Colombia,
Venezuela with Argentina and Cuba with Peru are none other than the ties of passion. (Cueva 2001, 14)
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possession of ‘the kind of training and knowledge that is required to read the genre best’
(Duncan 1995, 85). Thus Duncan’s assertion that female viewers best read the genre is
reworked here to include all ‘trained’ telenovela viewers. Here, the telenovela’s
‘permeability to the transformations of modern life’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 281) only
serves to facilitate this familiarity with the genre.
Arguably it is this affinity that tempers the paternalistic censorship of values that producers
conduct on the television public’s behalf, as Martínez outlined; ‘we know that the audience
does want to see itself reflected but we are careful not to offend any values that are
ingrained’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). Thus, whilst telenovela producers may appear
to ‘speak for’ audiences when they audit the ideological content of their programming, a
more complete picture of the ‘ideological ecosystem’ of the Mexican telenovela is achieved
if production is seen to work in relation to the audience’s expectations for and engagement
with the textual dynamics of the genre.
So whilst this censorship, in conjunction with the commercial nature of the telenovela
industry does undeniably limit the possibility for alternative systems of values to be
introduced within telenovela programming and taken up by audiences, this is not the
complete picture. Rather, audience affinity with the melodramatic narrative tropes of the
telenovela creates a set of requirements that producers seek to fulfill in order to secure
ratings. Ibarra acknowledges this role of the audience in determining the ideological
parameters of the telenovela when he advises that ‘it has been around for so many years,
that it has created a predilection which in turn established the ideal that now defines the
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rules’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). As such, it is only logical that audience ‘taste’ for
those telenovelas that adhere to these rules creates an industry based upon ‘the cannon of
repetition’ such that what producers create is not necessarily contrary to ‘what the public
wants’.
To understand the extent to which consumption influences telenovela production an
analysis of audience ‘needs’ and ‘desires’ is necessary. Such an investigation illustrates the
ways in which ‘ratings’ are not simply indicative of a lack of choice, the limited
‘knowledge frameworks’ that are available to viewers within the cultural imaginary or a
particular affinity with and knowledge of the genre’s melodramatic dynamics after years of
viewership. Rather, audiences actively embrace those spaces within the telenovela that
provide a sense of security, escapism and emotional justice; a phenomenon which scholars
argue resounds with oppressed peoples throughout the world and which in turn, has
facilitated the telenovela’s translation within diverse geo-linguistic markets across the
globe.
Because that’s the Genre of the Oppressed
Audience engagement with telenovela texts has long been associated with the ‘security’
that their familiarity provides. Perhaps most infamously, Televisa’s late president Emilio
Azcárraga Jean fueled the debate when in 1993 he infamously declared that ‘Mexico is a
country with a large class of people who are screwed’ (cited in Monsiváis 1997, n.p.).
Defending Televisa’s programming by asserting that ‘Television’s responsibility is to bring
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these people entertainment and distract them from their sad reality and difficult future’
(cited in Monsiváis 1997, n. p.) he framed Televisa as effectively carrying out a community
service. Yet despite the indictment that this commentary incited, the same critics have
qualified Azcárraga’s logic.
Cueva writes that telenovelas ‘are cyclical and repetitive enough to provide security to
those who watch them’ (Cueva 1998, 71). Indeed, ‘in a context of violence and economic
change’, in which ‘no one knows what will happen the next day’ it would seem that ‘there
is nothing so rewarding as seeing a serial melodrama’ (Cueva 1998, 71). For a people ‘who
have little control over their own life’, such televisual form allows them to ‘experience
some authority and knowledge in light of the endlessly predictable plot of the telenovela’
(Cueva 1998, 71). In fact, this purported desire for familiarity qualfies the audience’s
predilection for the Mexican telenovela ‘formula’, as Ibarra writes ‘the telenovela is also a
matter of habit, not surprises. People are accustomed to seeing again and again the same
Cinderella story’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
Adding to the appeal of the textual form is the narrative content itself. For many of those
interviewed, the ‘rose-tinted’ narratives of such telenovelas rosa are successful for their
provision of a utopian community in which a diverse people live in harmony. As feminist
scholar Marisa Belausteguigoitia Rius explained, the telenovela ‘sells a scenario in which
people come together’, be they ‘the plebs and the local community and the rich (for whom
things do not always go so well)’ (2007, pers. comm., 6 February). Here, telenovelas
provide a valuable space through which the hardships of everyday life can be escaped. As
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Laura Sanchez explains ‘it provides the means through which the people can momentarily
forget their reality, the life which doesn’t treat them very well’ (2007, pers. comm., 8
February). In fact, telenovelas are a comforting indulgence, for ‘beyond any human
suffering there will never be any person who is worse off, than the protagonists of these
stories’ (Cueva 1998, 71).
For these reasons, Epigmenio Ibarra calls telenovela melodrama ‘the human genre’ because
it grants the wishes of a people who ‘want a happy life’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).
For Ibarra, this desire for happiness complements the aspirational quality of many
telenovela narratives and should not be disparaged as the whimsical desires of a ‘screwed
people’ but rather recognised as something ‘authentic, real, [and] necessary’ (2007, pers.
comm., 9 February). It is only logical that ‘if one does not get in his life, he wants to see
others succeed, and dream that perhaps it might be him’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., 9
February).
Consequently, audience ‘tastes’ often prevent attempts to change the formulaic happy
ending. As Blanco explained, ‘there have been various attempts to change the traditional
telenovela ending and the result has not always been so happy. In these attempts […]
people have protested because they feel disappointed’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Blanco continued, explaining;
For me, a telenovela is like a story that a father or mother tells a small child to help them to
sleep. […] And the day that the parent gets tired of telling the same story and changes the
structure and the end of the story, the child automatically protests and says, annoyed:
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“that’s not how it goes”. And somehow that's what the telenovela is like. It is predictable,
but people want to know what they already know will end up happening. […] And that
causes [...] in my personal point of view, a kind of peace of mind based on the end of
stories in which the world will remain the same, that things are going to be alright, that
there is no conflict that causes irreparable change for the worse in our lives, that in the end
things as we know and want them are going to end [...] and that the unknown turns out to
be terrifying (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Consolidating this fairytale appeal is the triumph of good over evil. As Reginald Clifford
suggests, ‘[t]he moral constraints within melodrama of the telenovela form the value core
that audiences enjoy repeatedly’ (Clifford 2005, 365). Characters who deserve punishment
receive it. Those who are humble and good win out. Here the moral justice of the happy
ending equates to what Rowe and Schelling call ‘emotional democracy’ (Rowe and
Schelling 1991, 109) which indulges much of the viewing public’s desire for social
accountability in their everyday life. Thus, ‘although there is an undoubted emotional selfindulgence in telenovelas, they have another, potentially more political, side’ (Rowe and
Schelling 1991, 109). Blanco explained that ‘as long as there are difficulties in the political,
social, economic worlds, the telenovela guarantees that things will end up being good,
manageable, balanced and ordered, even though in truth they are a disaster’ (2007, pers.
comm., 17 January). As such, when framed within the cultural context, what is traditionally
configured as ‘passive’ ‘escapist’ viewing for the ‘screwed masses’ becomes a vindication
for the large majority of the population oppressed by the economic, political and social
injustices of modern life.
Yet whilst the popularity of these tales makes sense within Mexico’s cultural context, it is
because ‘people feel screwed in much of today’s world’ (Martínez A 2000, n. p.), that the
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Mexican telenovela transcends national borders. Mirroring Thomas Elsaesser’s observation
that melodramatic production rises in turbulent times (Elsaesser 1991) Cueva asserts that ‘It
is no coincidence that serial melodramas have accompanied Mexicans throughout recent
years, just as it is no coincidence that they triumph in countries with the worst social
problems’ (Cueva 2001, 142). Offering respite from the harsh realities of everyday life, the
telenovela becomes not only the genre of a people, but moreover, the genre of the
oppressed. Explaining the appeal of the Mexican telenovela Marimar to Filipino audiences,
a Philippine newspaper argued that it allowed them to ‘escape from the ugliness of their
surroundings, the ugliness of poverty, the ugliness of their public officials’ (Ortiz de Urbina
and López 1999, n.p.). As one woman was quoted, ‘what I like about Marimar […] is that
she has the same problems as we do. She’s poor like us. Her house was burned down. They
mistreated her. They degraded her. She’s almost Filipina’ (Ortiz de Urbina and López 1999,
n.p.).
Because that’s the Genre of a Trans/National Commercial Industry
The place of the nation in an increasingly transnational production and consumption
context is a complex paradigm long debated by scholars and critics identifying the dilemma
of negotiating local and global audiences. Several possibilities stand; should the national be
emphasised, showcased as an exotic locale, as a means of differentiating from the other
national television industries competing within the transnational arena, and in doing so,
possibly isolate national audiences whose lived reality differs from that onscreen? (Murphy
1995) Should the nation be reinforced as a means of cultural protectionism in order to
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ensure the national audience remains loyal to ‘local’ products? (Waisbord 2004b) Or should
the national be sidelined, to make way for a ‘delocalised’ (Straubhaar 1991) or ‘odourless’
(Iwabuchi 2002) product that can be marketed across borders?
Undermining the notion that in a globalised world, ‘there is one identity that is marketed
and packaged for foreign consumption, especially for tourists, and there is another identity,
marked as ‘real” and authentic, and lived out in a domain to which the foreigner is rarely
privy’, (Miller N. 2006, 217) for the telenovela, none of these options prevail. In fact, the
commodification of Mexico for diasporic and foreign audiences consolidates the Mexico
that has long been commodified for national audiences. Here, it is ‘the availability of the
telenovela in much of the world [that] can be considered to exacerbate the creation and recreation of a Mexican imagined community when we view the telenovela as one more
export that sells Mexico to other countries’ (Estill 2000, 85-6). Consequently, the
telenovela’s transnational success plays an important part in the perpetuation of nationalist
narratives within the contemporary context. An analysis of these markets highlights the
type of Mexico on display within telenovela fare as one invested in nostalgia and
‘exoticised’ tradition, synonymous with those exclusionary nationalist narratives resonant
during periods of nation-construction and prevalent within the contemporary cultural
imaginary.
Ana Uribe’s work on the role of the telenovela in the lives of Mexican immigrants to the
US suggests that as an ‘invented tradition’, the telenovela’s homage to the past satisfies a
need to engage with the homeland. Indeed, the telenovela’s commodification of the ‘ideal
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imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) satisfies the often nostalgic urges of the Mexican
Diaspora due to its investment in what Uribe calls ‘geo-symbols’ (Uribe 2005, 20) that are
synonymous with the homeland. Here, ‘Independent of the narrative plot that develops, the
fact that they are telenovelas made in Mexico […] works to strengthen pride for the nation
of origin’ (Uribe 2005, 22).
Interviews with the Mexican diaspora in the United States conducted by Barrera and Bielby
confirm this equation, suggesting that whilst many of the women they interviewed sought
telenovelas ‘with culturally transgressive female protagonists and non-traditional plots’,
their ultimate desire to engage with national narratives trumped this preference (Barrera and
Bielby 2004, 12). Consequently, ‘names, places, or music of the past’ (Barrera and Bielby
2004, 8) as well as ‘religious practices and customs’ (Barrera and Bielby 2004,9) assist the
maintenance of links with the homeland. Here, audience ratings may not necessarily reflect
complicity with traditional models of gender representation, but instead a nostalgic desire
to connect with cultural heritage.
Evidence of this can be found with the ratings failure of Telemundo in the nineties. As rival
network to the Televisa affiliated Univision it mirrored the initial strategy of its parent
company in Mexico TV Azteca by attempting to reach a more ‘sophisticated’ audience
through its ‘daring’ new programming.26 However, this rejection of traditional telenovela
fare ‘bombed’ and Telemundo failed to dent Univision’s monopoly of the market. As such,
26
Indeed, ‘when media giants Sony and Liberty Media jointly acquired Telemundo in early 1998, they
dismissed recycled Latin American telenovelas — however hip or daring the latest might seem to Mexican
audiences — as a hopelessly outdated form of programming for the increasingly sophisticated Hispanic
market in the United States’ and ‘to attract a younger audience, the assimilated generations’ (Martínez A.
2000, n. p.).
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Telemundo resorted to a line up of more traditional telenovelas with a proven track record
in Mexico. In response, ‘the results of Telemundo’s reversal testify to the telenovela's
enduring allure: Prime-time viewership among adults ages 18 to 49 was up 122 percent […]
compared with one year earlier’ (Martínez A, 2000, n. p.). So whilst Univision continues to
monopolise the market, Telemundo’s adherence to traditional telenovela fare ensured its
improved ratings.
Evidently, the Mexican Diaspora’s ‘Nostalgia for cultural coherence, [and] nostalgia for the
culture of one’s community and home’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 243) supports the
reproduction of the ‘Mexican formula’. In this way, it mirrors what might be called the
national telenovela audience’s own nostalgia for the ‘ideal imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001,
172) that is synonymous with the past, as evident in Cueva’s analysis of audience ‘tastes’ in
the 2008 ratings hit Fuego en la Sangre.
Yet further to this investment in nationalist narratives of the past, non-culturally proximate
transnational markets also support this production. The appeal of the Mexican telenovela in
so many distinct markets has been rationalised as a product of its ‘family-friendly’ content.
As Quiñones explains, the telenovela had family and romance but none of the gratuitous
sex and violence from much US television drama (Quiñones 1998b, 42). Yet additionally, it
is the ‘Latin exoticism and emotional exuberance’ within these serial melodramas that has
been credited with the Mexican telenovela’s transnational success. As Daniel Mato
explains, ‘it’s a fact that stories with lots of local colour, showing typical Latin American
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scenes and people, are most popular in the rest of the world’ (cited in Ortiz de Urbina and
López 1999, n.p.).
To summarise then, coupled with the Manichaean melodrama’s provision of ‘emotional
democracy’ for an oppressed people, the ‘ideal imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) finds
resonance with foreign audiences, both as nostalgic articulation amongst the Mexican
Diaspora, and as ‘exotic’ commodity for transnational audiences. Arguably, this version of
the nation gains even more currency for its wide appeal to diverse audiences, and the
apparent congruence between foreign and domestic audience ‘tastes’ allows producers to
cater to these diverse markets through this streamlined product. As producers invest in the
melodramatic narrative tropes that facilitate audience engagement with the aspirational,
escapist and moral justice elements of the narrative, cultural or geo-linguistic proximity can
be negotiated.
Yet this product facilitates the perpetuation of nationalist narratives within the
contemporary context. As Ana Lopez explains, ‘once export potential is taken into
consideration when making production decisions, telenovelas can no longer address the
nation too specifically and cannot afford to be insular, but they must still retain some
national specificity in order to attract audiences’ (Lopez 1995, 265). Within this equation,
‘cultural difference’ within Mexico is commodified into ‘cheap and more profitable
exoticism’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 284). Within the trans/national telenovela text, cultural
markers such as national architecture and landmarks, foods and music sell an ‘authentic’
yet ‘exotic’ version of Mexican iconography. As such, whilst paying homage to some form
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of national identity the Mexican telenovela does not go beyond the gloss of a tourist
brochure. Their narration of stories that ‘do not imply concrete spaces nor specific
sociopolitical moments’ but rather, ‘narratives that will work as well in Malaysia as in any
other part of the World’ (Cueva 1998, 282).
Explaining that if a telenovela ‘maintains very local themes and issues, the people of
Ukraine won’t be interested’, Laura Sanchez emphasised the importance of the romantic
love story to international currency (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Indeed, for Sanchez,
‘with a love story, you can tell it anywhere, because humanity, essentially, is the same
everywhere’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Adamant that this desire is universal, she
declared ‘that is the desire that we all have; the entire human race. And anyone who
disagrees, well, I don’t believe them’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). It only follows that
because ‘Televisa exports telenovelas throughout the world […] the most important thing
[…] is that you are telling a love story’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February).
For Sanchez, these love stories transcended time as well as space. Asking ‘how old is
Romeo and Juliet? How old is One Thousand and One Nights?’ she explained that the
enduring success within the trans/national telenovela market is determined by subscription
to the love story (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). For Sanchez, stories that focused on
current themes and issues will invariably lose relevance, as people forget or just don’t care
(2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Thus, with the ‘afterlife’ of telenovela reruns factored into
a narrative’s validity, it seems that the telenovela love story provides the most viable option
for telenovela executives.
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Yet as previously outlined, investment in the romantic love story leads to the perpetuation
of an exclusionary representational schema. Indeed, despite Sanchez’s adamancy of the
universality and durability of telenovela love, she revealed its exclusionary nature when
insisting ‘most important is the clarity of that love story; those two pillars that are man and
woman who will love and attempt at all costs, to consolidate this love’ (2007, pers. comm.,
8 February). Such heteronormative narratives reinforce the exclusionary nationalist
ideology at its heart, which paints the female protagonist as ‘pure, good, happy’ and the
galán ‘who will rescue her from everything in the world that controls her, so that they can
live out their love’ (Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).
Negotiating the ‘Tidy Nation’
As the genre of a trans/national commercial industry, the telenovela love story’s ‘tidy
nation’ plays out within telenovela content over the industry’s fifty year history, as
producers negotiate both changing consumer needs and tastes, and the constant fiscal
prerequisites for telenovela production. The following chapters explore this negotiation of
production and consumption imperatives within the commercial telenovela industry,
tracking how trends play out within specific telenovela texts in light of the changing
telenovela industry, and its reflection of those wider changes occurring within Mexico’s
cultural and political economy. Reading the type of nation on display within these
narratives, and the corresponding race, class and gender citizenship that it allows, these
chapters provide a detailed insight into a changing yet ultimately recursive industry, where
commercial imperatives seem to curb any potentially [melo]-dramatic change in the
representation of the nation and its citizens onscreen.
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Chapter Four begins this analysis in an exploration of the telenovela rosa. Through the
close textual reading of Rosalinda it expands upon the narrative formula for ‘tidy-womanas-nation-construction’ outlined in Chapter One and consequently provides insight into the
textual logic against which all subsequent chapters are considered.
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Chapter Four
Founding Female Citizenship within the
Telenovela Rosa
Chapter Four: Founding Female Citizenship within the telenovela rosa
‘A child is the greatest blessing that God can give us’
— Fernando José, Rosalinda
This chapter explores the configuration of female citizenship within the Mexican telenovela
rosa through an analysis of the textual dynamics conducive to ‘tidy nation’ construction. It
catalogues the tropes of female characterisation necessary for the construction of female
citizenship by observing their relationship with and execution of those values— virginity,
matrimony and maternity— considered to be conducive to this nation construction, as
discussed in chapters one and two. Brief reference throughout to Mariana de la Noche,
Destilando Amor and La Dueña assists this analysis but as more detailed analysis of
Rosalinda provides a comprehensive review of the dynamics of female citizenship within
the Mexican telenovela rosa. Specifically, Rosalinda is chosen as a representative of the
temporary historical ‘demise’ of the telenovela rosa in the mid nineties, when its ratings
failure heralded audience dissatisfaction with its ‘tidy nation’ construction, and an
impatience for stories reflective of the vast changes underway within the national space.
Each of the convoluted tales considered within this chapter — though set in the southern
jungles of Mexico, further north in the tequila fields, on a picturesque ranch, and in the
nation’s capital — narrates a similarly ‘tidy’ version of ‘the nation’. Each privileges the
creation of a community that is conducive to the type of nation configured within
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nationalist nation-building narratives. Thus despite the different setting and the non-specific
temporality within each of these four narratives, the communities constructed within these
texts have much in common; amongst similar racial and class configurations, the ongoing
division of female characters into ‘protagonist’ and ‘antagonist’ remains integral to each of
these narratives, and facilitates their consequent perpetuation of female mythification
through the Mexican telenovela rosa.
Nation-Making in the Telenovela Rosa
As discussed in chapter one, through its formulaic creation of a particularly ‘tidy’ version
of community, the Mexican telenovela rosa enables the ‘constant creation of nation-ness
through the micro community’ (Estill 2001, 179). In so doing, this figurative national space
serves as a contemporary site for the construction and perpetuation of the ‘ideal imagined
Mexico’ (Estill, 2001, 172) that is reminiscent of the Mexican government’s nationalist
project during historical periods of ‘nation building.’ The common definition of the
telenovela rosa as operative within a ‘vacuum’ of time and space (Martín-Barbero 1995
cited in Acosta-Alzuru 2003b) is undermined by an analysis of the telenovela’s parallels
with the nationalist project of nation construction. Similarly, notions that the crudely
Manichaean one-dimensional social roles that configure telenovela characters act ‘purely
[as] signs’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 280) obfuscate the reflections of nationally resonant
discourses on race, class, gender and sexuality that these personalities present.
Class representations within the telenovela rosa situate the ‘honest, caring communities of
lower-class people’ as examples of ideal citizens whose moral superiority ‘will always win
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out’ (Estill 2001, 180-1). In this schema, ‘poor people will be better neighbors and citizens
than rich people’ creating a ‘nationness’ constructed by ‘decency, respect, and honor’
(Estill 2001, 181). Thus a situation whereby the rosa telenovelas ‘exalt poor people and,
even though it appears to be to the contrary, condemn wealth’ is created (Cueva 2001, 18).
The telenovela Vivo Por Elena (Televisa, 1998) provides a good example of this paradigm
when it states that
[This telenovela] is about two very different worlds…behind its facade of poverty, one
finds this picturesque neighborhood…where happiness and love reign. [On the other side
one finds another world] which behind its face of abundance hides trickery and betrayal.
The two worlds have nothing in common except one thing — Elena (Estill 2001, 177-8).
Like Elena, often it is the poor characters that are morally superior and have the most to
teach the rich about life and love (Duncan 1995, 83). This trope often sees the protagonist
originating from a poor upbringing and moving within the world of the wealthy. She often
confronts a rich and powerful antagonist who sets about tainting her innocence and
destroying her appeal. Ultimately though, many telenovela protagonists teach those wealthy
characters who doubt them and actively seek their downfall, the importance of love,
compassion and humility.
The fairytale Cinderella narrative at the heart of many telenovela rosa texts ensure that it is
rare that a protagonist will end her telenovela days without financial abundance, either
through marriage or inheritance. Here it would seem that ideal class citizenship within the
‘tidy nation’ of the Mexican telenovela rosa has little to do with the socioeconomic realities
beyond the telenovela borders. In fact, Estill argues that such ‘empowerment’ of the lower
classes ‘compensate[s] them for not having financial power’ serving as a distraction from
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the real social and economic problems that constitutes their lives (Estill 2001, 181). Yet
whilst this schema may be fantastical, these class dynamics are not divorced from a
national reality. Indeed, as explained by Epigmenio Ibarra, audiences may want to see
themselves ‘reflected in the mirror’, but that the reflection must be an improved version of
the self. As he states, ‘there was a problem with the mirror, the mirror worked but not
entirely. One wants to see oneself in another way, a little above what they are’ (cited in
Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 124). Confirming this impression, Cuauhtémoc Blanco
explained that
One does not want to look ridiculous. […] One does not want to see his own defects and
misfortunes that he has to lug through life. One wants to be reflected a little better. That is
the intention of the human being [...] and that obviously is the eternal rule of advertising.
[These are precise rules dictated by the market] (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Similarly, the telenovela rosa’s race dynamics have much to say about exclusionary
discourses of colonial origins that continue to resound within the national space. Indeed,
within the Mexican telenovela, those ‘beautiful’ characters acting out the romantic love
stories are invariably light skinned with more ‘European’ features. Inextricably tied up with
class issues, ‘skin color typically dictates one’s social class, with dark skin characters
relegated to servile roles and stars more frequently light skinned and blonde’ (Navarro 2000
cited in Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 4). Further highlighting ‘the ever-present connections
between darkness and poverty’ (Winders et al. 2005, 78) ‘lower class characters […] have
noticeably indigenous or mestizo features, while rich characters […] have more European
features’ (Estill 2001, 179). However, the connection between race and class rarely carries
through to the realm of the protagonist, who despite her poverty has these physical markers
of racial privilege.
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These dynamics are evident within Rosalinda. Set in Mexico City Rosalinda moves
through several locations including the poor neighbourhood, the rich mansion, several
workplaces, the streets around these areas and public parks. It is in these spaces that the
‘tidy nation’ is constructed, in particular via the juxtaposition of the classes. The poor
neighbourhood is continuously painted as ‘the place to be’, where family and friends unite
in humility but in joy, as two of its residents affirm; ‘In this neighbourhood life is
awesome! […] We’re a big family!’ The notion of unity as distinctive to the poor setting is
shown throughout the telenovela, where family and friends live the rhythm of life and love
together, in moments of high drama but similarly in those moments of simple pleasure,
when they just enjoy each other’s company.
Indeed many scenes set within the neighbourhood serve dramatic purpose but rather imbue
the poor district with a sense of celebration. As such they contrast sharply to the scenes set
in the lavish mansion, with its many empty rooms and corridors. Here, the luxurious setting
cannot compensate for the rich laughter and tears of the ‘hood, where life is set to truly
reside. In this setting, the dirty walls and the absence of comfort such as a private telephone
signal the real ‘wealth of poverty’ that is advocated by the Mexican telenovela rosa. Race
has less of a starring role in this novela, as in the majority of the Mexican telenovelas rosa.
Within Rosalinda, the only character that represents the racially ‘darker’ elements of the
nation is the maid whose short, rotund stature, ‘dark’ features and tightly curled hair,
differentiate her from the tall, lean and light skinned main characters. Only incidentally can
a more inclusive configuration of the nation be seen, lingering on the fringes of the
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narrative; in the parks, streets, restaurants and market places of Mexico City, where curious
passers-by stand and watch the telenovela being filmed before them.
Such exclusionary dynamics are also found in the configuration of female citizenship
within these ‘rosa’ communities. Where woman symbolizes ‘the necessity of producing and
reproducing the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172) the female characters within the telenovela signal
which version of femininity is, and which is not, conducive to nation construction. As such
female characters have much to say about traditional notions of ‘appropriate femininity’
that have been promoted throughout Mexican history.
As surveyed in chapter one, the principal tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ within the
Mexican telenovela rosa are closely related to the process of ‘producing and reproducing’
the ‘tidy nation’ (Estill, 2001, 172). Based upon the ‘values’ of purity (virginity), duty
(matrimony) and procreation (maternity) (Le Gallo 1988, 235) notions of ‘appropriate
femininity’ are the ultimate prerequisite for a female character’s designation as protagonist
of the telenovela rosa narrative. Here purity, in the form of virginity, is key to this equation
as related to nationalist narratives on female sexuality and colonisation. Matrimony is
similarly an indispensable qualification within the female protagonist’s trajectory as it
qualifies her orientation towards the domestic sphere and the family. Yet ultimately,
fulfillment of maternity constitutes her achievement of ‘appropriate femininity’ and ‘ideal
citizenship’ within the ‘tidy nation’. Motherhood thus becomes the ultimate rite of passage
for female characters, and in turn reflects the function of ‘woman as nation’ that underlines
the relationship between female characterisation and citizenship within the Mexican
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telenovela. Responsible for both its ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172), this is
the protagonist’s link with the nationalist project of nation construction.
Yet this trilogy of values, representative of the different stages of a woman’s acquisition of
citizenship within the Mexican telenovela rosa’s ‘tidy nation’, is further regulated by
notions of their ‘appropriate’ execution. Hence ‘appropriate femininity’ is a two-fold
character test, as an integral component of their fulfillment is whether characters relate
‘actively’ or ‘inactively’ to these values. Here, as Estill explains, the privileging of
passivity/inaction within the telenovela rosa posits the antagonist as she who is ‘tainted by
the reality or the insinuation of unfeminine ambitions’ (Estill 2001, 185-6). Thus ‘ambition’
equals transgression of ‘appropriate’ femininity. Such ambition manifests in relation to the
values of ‘appropriate’ femininity in a variety of ways. Sexually, only ‘the villains give
themselves over to passionate encounters without any type of repentance’ (Vela 2004, 2).
Similarly, the antagonist is she ‘who rejects the possibility of motherhood’ or she who
‘even with children, prioritises other activities or values over maternity’ (Olguín 1993, 23).
Within the Mexican telenovela rosa, it is not enough to marry and procreate. A woman
must execute these processes ‘appropriately’. Thus a female character that actively seeks
love and manipulates a situation in order to be married and bear children is artificial and
‘unnatural’. Due to this antagonism towards the ‘harmonious’ construction of the ‘tidy
nation’, she is denied citizenship.
Consequently, the policing of ‘appropriate’ femininity is consolidated upon the narrative
conclusion. Through death, insanity, incarceration and myriad other punishments, the
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antagonists are effectively exiled from their respective community. As such, the threat that
their ‘inappropriate femininity’ poses to the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001,
172) of the ‘ideal’ community, is removed. In contrast, the protagonist’s inevitable victory
sees her rewarded with the love of the telenovela galán for her execution of ‘appropriate’
femininity. Following this formula, permanent residency within the community is either
granted or denied, effecting a form of citizenship of these figurative ideal versions of the
national space.
Formulating Female Citizenship within the ‘Tidy Nation’
‘The unloved look heavier than the loved. Their eyes are sadder but their thoughts are clearer’
— The Unloved - Deborah Levy
In line with the telenovela rosa’s female dichotomy, female characterisation ‘fits’ into a
Manichaean melodramatic schema configuring women as oppositional via visual,
behavioural, ‘trajectorial’ and ideological narrative tropes. Here the ‘positive’ and
‘negative’ status of these women is understood through an analysis of their characterisation
and physical representation. Additionally, an analysis of their narrative trajectories, such as
behaviour and interaction with other characters, informs this understanding. The
consideration of this schema is posed as an inevitable dénouement of the Manichaean
melodrama inherent to the telenovela rosa formula. The following table identifies the key
factors that constitute each woman’s polarised characterisation and ‘appropriate’ ending
within the telenovela rosa schema;
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An analysis of this table reveals how the narrative construction of the female
characterisation and citizenship encourages the audience’s engagement with the dominant
narrative, making it integral to the dynamics of privileged reading. Replicating the schema
of a self-fulfilling prophecy, female characterisation and its dénouement in the granting or
denial of female citizenship acts as ‘feedback loop’ within this equation. Following the path
of good, the protagonist is chosen by the galán because she is good, but her goodness is
facilitated by this choice. By the same logic, this ‘loved’ woman reinforces this choice by
maintaining a positive relationship with love and the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.
Consequently, she embodies the values that are advocated within the heterosexual-loverelationship-as-‘tidy nation’-construction. Here, through the compliant execution of
appropriate’ values, she is granted permanent residency within the ‘ideal imagined’
community that configured upon telenovela conclusion. Her citizenship follows.
Similarly the antagonist is unloved because she is bad and she is bad because she is
unloved. Indeed, her rejection by the telenovela galán is caused by her ‘badness’, which is
consequently exacerbated by this rejection. By the same logic, the ‘unloved’ woman
reinforces this choice by maintaining a negative relationship with love and the tenets of
appropriate femininity. Consequently, she threatens the values that are advocated within the
heterosexual love relationship and ‘tidy nation’ construction through their ‘inappropriate’
execution and she is denied permanent residency/citizenship. The ‘necessary’ ‘reward’ and
‘punishment’ of the protagonist and antagonist at telenovela end thus concurs with the
Manichaean nature of the Mexican telenovela rosa melodrama and its construction of the
‘ideal imagined’ community as ‘tidy nation.’
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Evidently, within these formulae, the role of the galán sits at the heart of the Mexican
telenovela rosa. As the arbiter of appropriate female ideological values and
behaviour/activities, he forms the link between characterisation and trajectory. Here, his
choice of one woman over another is not arbitrary, but rather is rational and functional. It is
only logical that he would choose the protagonist over the antagonist. Thus love effectively
becomes the construct against which all aspects of female identity are formed such that a
female character’s visual and semiotic representation, values, behaviour— including
activity/inactivity, relationship with knowledge and power, execution of female rivalry, and
trajectory — including her transgression — can be determined by her relationship with
love.
Within this schema, a female character’s relationship with love determines how her fate
will unfold within the telenovela trajectory, and whether she is granted ‘citizenship’ within
the ‘tidy nation’ constructed by telenovela end. Yet it also determines her characterisation
throughout. A character that does not love or deserve to be loved will actively seek it. This
is the unloved antagonist. A character that does love, and deserves to be loved, will
patiently await its gifts. This is the loved protagonist.
Evidently, agency is a determining factor of each female character’s fate, as the galán’s
choice is shaped by each woman’s engagement with dominant ideology and consequent
behaviour. Indeed, this factor is fundamental to distinguishing the different fates of each
character, as within any telenovela rosa narrative, both the protagonist and antagonist will
marry and even fall pregnant. Here, they both engage with the values of marriage and
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maternity upon which the ‘tidy nation’ is founded. Yet in order to ensure the legitimacy of
the nation space — and according to the logic of the pensadores, to maintain its integrity
after the threat of colonisation — the fundamentally different ways in which they do so is
emphasised. As dictated by their respective relationship to purity as virginity, they will
either have a ‘natural’ or ‘unnatural’ engagement with marriage and maternity.
Here, the dichotomy of ‘action/inaction’ informs whether they have a ‘natural’ or
‘unnatural’ relationship with these values, such that active and inactive behaviour
determines a woman’s value. A woman who actively seeks marriage and motherhood is
considered ‘bad’ as she symbolises a contrivance or manipulation of these states through
knowledge and power, for antagonistic means. Her accompanying disrespect of the galán’s
authority to choose an ‘appropriate’ candidate for his love threatens the patriarchal power
integral to the maintenance of the ‘ideal imagined’ community. An analysis of female
rivalry as a manifestation of this antagonistic ‘activity’, and the threat of a transgression of
polarised roles — that accompanies such melodramatic plot developments over the
extensive narrative length — similarly indicates the parameters through which these
dichotomous lines are drawn. In contrast, a woman who respects this role is a protagonist,
as she correspondingly awaits her selection by the telenovela galán for marriage and
motherhood, and effectively maintains the patriarchal hegemony within this eternal wait for
fulfilment.
Thus inactivity and love by the galán go together such that any ‘transgressive’ activity
within the narrative trajectory can provide narrative drama whilst not obfuscating the clarity
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of the characterisation. Thus although the protagonist may ‘lose her way’ in moments of
transgression throughout the often complex and convoluted narrative — as necessary to
create much of the narrative tension and complication throughout the average 120 episode
length27 — her situation as ‘good’ at the telenovela beginning as proven through her
selection by the galán, serves to prevent obfuscation of a polarised female characterisation.
Consequently, whilst the protagonist and antagonist’s occupation of sites of transgression
creates moments of high dramatic tension, their classification by the galán’s romantic
affections from the outset conveys their inherent value to the viewer from telenovela
beginning. Univision’s head of development Patricio Wills indicated this dynamic when
quipping that ‘A telenovela is all about a couple who wants to kiss and a scriptwriter who
stands in their way for 150 episodes’ (Martínez L, 2008, n.p.). Yet more than a mere
distraction from the story’s inevitable dénouement, the twists and turns of the telenovela
plot justify the importance of the protagonist’s triumph and her nemesis’ destruction.
Inextricably tied up with the Manichaean morality and justice that ‘resolves’ those sites of
female transgression, the galán thus provides the resolution that effectively closes down
those ‘immoral’ interstitial spaces between the ‘primordial polarities’ of female
characterisation by narrative conclusion (Bhabha 1994, 4). As the origin of this narrative
‘justice’, the galán forms a cornerstone of telenovela lore connecting heteronormative love,
the reward or punishment of various forms of femininity, and patriarchal tidy-nation
construction.
27
As Ibarra explains; ‘realistically, melodrama is what enables you to last 120 hours’ (2007, pers. comm., 9
February).
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The Fates of Four Roses
This formula is evident in each of each of the telenovelas rosa considered here. Set in a
mining community in the southern Mexican jungle, the dramatic ending of Mariana de la
Noche (‘Mariana of the Night’, Televisa 2003) exemplifies the appropriate narrative
trajectory for female protagonists and antagonists within the traditional Mexican telenovela
rosa. Mariana is a beautiful innocent schoolteacher who falls in love with the proud and
tormented stranger Ignacio. But Ignacio has a secret past, and he returns to town in order to
avenge his parents’ murder, which he witnessed as a child. However, fate intervenes, and
Ignacio soon discovers that the man posing as the father of his true love Mariana is actually
the killer. Torn apart by their parents’ twisted past, Mariana and Ignacio are further
tormented by Marcia’s obsessive pursuit of Ignacio’s attentions. As Ignacio’s boss at the
mines, Marcia capitalises on every opportunity that she has to seduce the tormented
Ignacio. She finally beds the unsuspecting galán when he is incarcerated and blind then
obliges him to marry her after feigning pregnancy.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 5- Pious Mariana
Figure 6- Ignacio, Mariana
& Marcia
Figure 7- Proud Marcia
Heartbroken, Mariana renounces love and decides to work as a hostess at a casino. The fate
of Mariana and Ignacio’s love seems dire. Yet against all odds, Mariana finally marries
Ignacio in a beautiful night wedding with the blessing of God and before the good people
of her village. She is the custodian of this community through her marriage to Ignacio and
the mothering of his child. Conversely Marcia dies a slow painful death by gunshot. This is
her punishment for such transgressive behaviour as ‘sexual promiscuity’, aggression,
manipulation, and attempted murder — including infanticide. Designed to prevent the true
love union of Mariana and Ignacio, these crimes are ultimately committed against the
‘ideal’ community configured by telenovela conclusion.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 8 — Marcia’s death by gunshot
Figure 9- Ignacio and Mariana; happily ever after
Gaviota’s marriage to Rodrigo in Destilando Amor (‘Distilling Love’, Televisa 2007)
emulates the fate of Mariana before her. Gaviota is a beautiful and passionate seasonal
worker who meets the ruggedly good-looking but sensitive Rodrigo whilst harvesting his
tequila fields. They fall madly in love, and Gaviota proves to be the only woman who has
ever been able to inflame Rodrigo’s passion after a life of sexual impotence. They promise
to meet the following harvest, as Rodrigo must return to Oxford University to complete his
master’s degree. Yet when Gaviota discovers she is carrying his child, she plans to surprise
him in England and accepts the offer of a ‘model scout’, who in reality provides
unsuspecting young women to a high-class brothel in Paris. Gaviota escapes and roams the
London streets, looking for Rodrigo. She spots him one day but as she rushes to cross the
street, she is hit by a car and hospitalised in a convent. She has lost Rodrigo’s child.
Meanwhile, Rodrigo has returned home to propose to Gaviota. Yet the townspeople tell
him of Gaviota’s prostitution and Rodrigo’s horror and heartache at her betrayal cause him
to act irrationally; marrying another woman on the day that he and Gaviota had planned
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their reunion. Gaviota returns from London just in time to witness Rodrigo exchanging
wedding vows with a stranger.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 10 — Destilando Amor's Isadora, Rodrigo and Gaviota
Heartbreak, pride and torment ensue, preventing Gaviota and Rodrigo from reconciling the
cruel obstacles and twists of fate that pulled them apart. Isadora’s manipulations cause
further torment, as she obsessively seeks to seduce her husband despite his assertions that
their marriage will stay unconsummated. Consequently, Isadora becomes obsessed with
seducing her husband, and when he refuses her advances, she sates her desire in the arms of
other men.
Following her promiscuity, Isadora falls from grace. Although she does not die, as do her
antagonistic counterparts Marcia and Fedra, her status in the upper echelons of society
disappears when Rodrigo divorces her, and she takes up a position as a teacher in a public
school. Isadora is content with her new life. Yet in contrast to Gaviota who is deliriously
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happy as the wife of the telenovela galán, the mother of his adorable children, and
correspondingly the custodian of the ‘ideal’ community configured at telenovela end,
Isadora’s happiness is less significant.
Regina’s characterisation within La Dueña (‘The Owner’, Televisa 1995) appears
unconventional for a Mexican telenovela rosa protagonist. When her fiancé Mauricio
abandons her at the altar, her perfect life begins to unravel. Once sweet and caring, she
turns bitter and aggressive. She moves to the countryside to start a new life, where she
becomes ‘La Dueña’ (‘the owner’) of a ranch that she inherited after the death of her
parents. There she falls in love with José María but her fear of being hurt once again
exacerbates her bitterness and she vehemently rejects his affections. In fact, Regina’s
aggression sees her dubbed ‘the rattlesnake’ by many of the townsfolk. Yet José María falls
in love with Regina's goodness when he learns that her anger is purely the product of a
painful past.
Regina’s marriage to José María at telenovela conclusion does not include the white
wedding dress that has been made for the occasion. Rather, she weds in her riding gear, as
the cowgirl that her assertive persona embraces. Yet regardless of this semiotic diversity,
the plotlines stay the same. As she is lead to their cabin in the final scene of the telenovela,
Regina becomes the custodian of the ‘ideal’ community to which she belongs.
Comparatively, Regina’s jealous cousin Laura has killed herself. After frantic attempts to
separate the couple, including the falsification of a pregnancy, she cannot make José María
love her. Hounded by the ghost of a dead lover — a married man who she accidentally
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killed when planning to run off with Regina’s fiancé Mauricio — she goes mad and hangs
herself in a trance. In light of her crimes against the ‘tidy nation’, her fate is conventional.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 11— La Dueña's Jose Maria, Regina and Laura
These tales all indicate the logic of Manichaean femininity within the Mexican telenovela
however, it is the tale of a poor but beautiful florist girl who marries a handsome and
wealthy lawyer that here provides a more detailed insight into the dynamics of this formula.
As namesake and heroine of Rosalinda (‘Pretty Rose’, Televisa 1999), this story’s
protagonist is a pretty florist’s assistant who marries her one true love in a white Church
wedding before the blessing of God. After the ceremony, a horse drawn carriage leads her
towards her new life, and into the future— both her own and that of the ‘ideal’ community
she has helped to sustain. This ‘happy ending’ celebrates her ultimate triumph as wife and
mother within the telenovela narrative after such impediments as madness, amnesia, a
career as a famous entertainer, and terminal illness. As expected, Rosalinda’s fate differs
markedly from that of her half sister Fedra. Where Rosalinda marries and forms a family
with her true love, Fedra dies in a hospital bed, without repentance to God. Fedra’s
assertion that ‘I don’t regret anything. I did everything for the love of Fernando José’ is not
enough to redeem her. Her mysterious illness and her ultimate death are punishment for her
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crimes against Rosalinda and Fernando as well as against the ‘ideal’ community
consolidated upon narrative conclusion.
The following plot summary is accompanied by a detailed analysis of the catalogue of
female characterisation within Rosalinda. Through textual examples, the following sections
elaborate on the logic set out in the brief outline of casual relations above, ultimately
revealing how characterisation leads to citizenship within a typical Mexican telenovela
rosa.
Rosalinda and the Telenovela Rosa Formula
Whilst Rosalinda and Fernando’s first kiss seals their fate, they are unaware that the ties
that bind will soon tear them apart. Fernando’s ‘mother’ Valeria refuses to accept Rosalinda
into her family because she is poor. She seeks to separate the young family and
investigating Rosalinda’s past, she discovers a terrible secret; Rosalinda is not who she
thinks she is… twenty years before, her mother Soledad was falsely imprisoned for the
murder of Fernando’s father. Soledad was pregnant and gave birth to Rosalinda in jail. Yet
desperate to provide her daughter with a good life, she gives custody of Rosalinda to her
sister Dolores. Believing that her aunt Dolores and uncle Xavier are her parents, and that
her cousins Fedra and Lucy are her sisters, Rosalinda grows into a beautiful, happy young
woman in love.
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Yet this is not to last. Valeria seeks revenge. Striking when Rosalinda is in hospital after
Erika’s premature birth, she reveals the truth and kidnaps the baby. In shock at the dramatic
turn of events, Rosalinda has a nervous breakdown. As she searches the streets for her
child, Rosalinda loses her mind. When the mental asylum in which she is institutionalised
burns down, Rosalinda is the sole survivor. Yet she is officially confirmed dead. Living on
the streets, she meets a homeless man who teaches her to steal. One night, as she is robbing
a wealthy home, she is discovered by Alex Dorantes — talent agent. Alex transforms
Rosalinda into the beautiful singing star Paloma and helps her to recover from her ordeal.
Yet despite her fame and fortune, Paloma cannot remember her past. Eternally grateful to
the man who changed her life, Paloma begins to fall in love with Alex.
However, this ‘happy ending’ cannot be, as Fernando cannot forget Rosalinda. Although he
has since married Fedra in order to provide a mother for his child, he soon falls in love with
Paloma, who reminds him of his late wife. Fernando tries to woo Paloma but she refuses to
destroy his young family. Fedra is also desperate to keep them apart, as she has discovered
Paloma’s true identity. Yet despite Fedra and Alex’s attempts to keep the truth hidden, fate
intervenes. One night, when attending Fernando’s piano concert, Rosalinda’s memories
come flooding back…
Still, Rosalinda and Fernando cannot reunite. Despite their love for each other, Rosalinda
refuses to reunite with her husband or their child. Believing that she has a terminal illness
after the results of Fedra’s medical tests are accidentally mixed with her own, she does not
want to cause them the pain of her death once more. Fernando cannot understand her
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rejection and condemns her. When Rosalinda discovers that she is not dying, she rushes to
Fernando’s side, but it is too late. He refuses to listen. Rosalinda becomes bitter and seeks
revenge on both Fernando and Fedra, whilst fighting to regain custody of her child.
When Fernando finally learns of Rosalinda’s true motivations, fate intervenes once more.
Fedra has become pregnant and lies that it is Fernando’s child. Rosalinda and Fernando
seem destined to remain apart. Yet once Fedra dies of her terminal illness, and Rosalinda’s
fiancé Augustín gives her permission to marry Fernando, they finally fulfil their destiny to
live happily ever after…
Despite the complexity of this narrative, reading Rosalinda through the telenovela rosa
formula reveals its inherent logic. Indeed, from the outset it is possible to identify which
two women the telenovela will battle for citizenship within the ‘tidy nation’. There are four
main female characters in this telenovela; Rosalinda, Fedra, Soledad and Valeria. Yet one
way in which these women can be immediately divided is via their affinity with the lower
socioeconomic level endorsed by the telenovela. Thus when discussing the neighbourhood,
Rosalinda’s affirmation that ‘you won’t find a better place than this’, and her mother
Soledad’s agreement, align them with good. Similarly, Fedra’s disdain for her poor
upbringing, which involves contempt for her father’s job as a mariachi upon his return
from a stint as an illegal immigrant in the United States, align her as a ‘traitor’ or
malinchista with a preference for the foreign over the ‘truly’ Mexican. Valeria’s disgust for
Rosalinda and the other ‘dirty animal’ occupants of the poor neighbourhood similarly
aligns her with ‘bad’.
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Further classifying these four women is age. Soledad and Valeria are in their forties.28
Rosalinda and Fedra are a generation younger, in their twenties. Due to their ‘viable age’ as
potential love interests to the telenovela galán, Rosalinda and Fedra are the best candidates
to vie for the galán’s love, and thus to adopt the central roles of the protagonist and
antagonist within the narrative. Here, the romantic love story nominates from the very
beginning who embodies good or evil. Yet the irreconcilable enmity of these two women is
clarified semiotically even before the telenovela galán has fallen in love.
Audio/Visual Representations of the Female Dichotomy
From the outset, the audiovisual profile of each female character confirms her status within
the narrative. For Cueva the ‘primitive, obvious and candid nature’ (Cueva 1998, 137) of
this audiovisual language manifests in the female characters’ name, beauty, clothing,
makeup, hair, stance and voice. Perhaps even more rudimentary, in his analysis of the
semiotics of the Mexican telenovela, Cueva declares ‘the name of each character usually
signifies something to the spectator’ (Cueva 1998, 106). Thus unsurprisingly, ‘the best
thing that can happen to a woman in the world of serial melodrama is to be called…. María’
(Cueva 1998, 106).
28
Whilst marginalised, Soledad and Valeria reinforce notions of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity
within the narrative. Key to this is Valeria’s sexuality. Her competition with Rosalinda for her son’s attention
and her belief that there is not room for the both of them in his life deems her femininity inappropriate due to
her attempts to compete for the love of her son. As an older woman, past her sexual ‘expiry date’, she
contrasts to Soledad, whose sexuality and desire have appropriately been shelved. Valeria’s improper
sexuality is developed in her affair with the younger Beto. She is presented as lustful; in scenes that see her
caress her breasts in front of the mirror and dream of making love to her son-in-law. Her behaviour as a
sexually active older woman is at odds with the established order, which determines a woman’s sexuality as
expired with age.
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As namesake of the Virgin Mary, a protagonist christened María is the Virgin incarnate;
charged with representing the epitome of goodness to which all other telenovela women are
compared.29 ‘Las Marías’ are one of the most famous variations of the telenovela rosa’s
‘Cinderella’ narrative in which ‘a poor but virtuous maid, usually named María […] fell in
love with the widowed, young head of the household’ (Quiñones 2001, 42). Similarly, a
protagonist dubbed Guadalupe is responsible for conveying the good name of the Virgin, as
do Angela, Angelica, Angelina, Rosangelica and Cristina. Rounding out the glossary of
Christian purity are Soledad (Loneliness), Prudencia (Prudence), Piedad (Piety), Dulcina
(Sweetness), Inocencia (Innocence) and Altagracia (High Grace) (Cueva 1998, 106).
Other symbolic names identified by Cueva as pertaining to the protagonist may be Estrella
(Star), Sara (meaning princess in Hebrew) or Cecilia (meaning ‘born to cry’) to show her
subscription to ideal femininity (Cueva 1998, 107). Her striking beauty may label her Gema
(Gem), Esmeralda (Emerald), Topacio (Topaz) or Rubi (Ruby) (Cueva 1998, 106). Beauty
that causes problems will dub a protagonist Elena (Helen as per ‘Helen of Troy’). Personal
characteristics such as a fiery personality or fierce loyalty may see protagonists labeled
Leonora, Leonela, Leonarda, Leopoldina or Leonor, associated with the characteristics of a
lioness (‘Leona’). A roughness, wildness and good-hearted independence that becomes
tamed through suffering may be called Rosa (Cueva 1998, 107-8).
In contrast, the antagonistic characters often have names symbolic of their immorality, such
as Malvina (from ‘evil’) or ‘exotic’ sounding names such as Aymee, Jessica, Pamela and
29
This blessing even extends beyond the fictional narrative, as according to Cueva ‘the presence of a
character with the name María, or some derivative of this, is like a talisman for success’ (Cueva 1998, 107).
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Jennifer (Cueva 1998, 107). Arguably indicative of their ambitious malinchismo, women
with anglicised names ‘nominally’ oppose the ideal Mexican nation configured onscreen.
Cueva notes that these women often have strong vocal sounds such as Catalina, where
martyr-like protagonists will have softer sounds such as Inés (Cueva 1998, 107).
To this list the female characters of Mariana de la Noche, Destilando Amor, La Dueña and
Rosalinda can be added. Mariana’s name is reminiscent of the Virgin Mary whereas
‘Marcia’ is a harsher sound and conveys her ‘outsider’ status through phonetic parallels
with ‘martian’ (marciano). Gaviota — meaning seagull— alludes to her spirited
independence and soaring beauty, though her real name Teresa is reminiscent of saintly
compassion and pious duty. In comparison to Gaviota’s admirable independence, Isadora
means emotional vulnerability and dependence on others (Princess Ale n.d., n.p). Regina
may initially sound aloof and superior, in line with its regal origins, yet upon closer
reflection, recalls Saint Regina — virgin and martyr of the fifth century. Laura joins the list
of ‘exotic’ sounding names of ‘unnatural’ foreign origin. Finally, Rosalinda is a ‘pretty
rose’ whereas Fedra — as a derivative of Fernanda — is a harsher and more masculinesounding name.
Visual tropes follow this logic, with ‘positive’ female characters possessing a ‘soft’,
‘warm’ beauty compared to the ‘hard’, ‘cold’ beauty of their antagonistic counterparts.
Often dressed in light coloured clothes that are attractive and simple, protagonists wear
light makeup and tidy hairstyles. In contrast, ‘negative’ female characters wear dark or
‘dangerous’ colours such as red. They wear ‘revealing’ or ‘masculine’ type clothing such as
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suits or pants, and heavy makeup, especially on their eyes. Their hairstyles are often
unconventional. Hair colour is not codified for one particular type, yet the female
dichotomy prevents the protagonist from sporting the same colour as the antagonist. This
maintains a visual symbol of their polarity.
As such, Mariana’s long strawberry blond hair contrasts to Marcia’s dark locks, which are
often tied back. Mariana’s simple pastel coloured knee-length skirt and top combos are as
pure as her manner. In turn, Marcia’s pants, revealing clothing and cigarettes match her
‘inappropriate’ job as the boss of the mine. Gaviota’s cascading dark curls, natural beauty
and peasant tops and skirts similarly contrast with Isadora’s straight platinum blond hair,
glamorous make up and expensive designer clothing. Regina’s long flowing brown hair
contrasts with Laura’s blond pixie cut and heavy makeup.
The physical incarnation of these opposing roles also serves as signs within the Mexican
telenovela rosa’s semiotic schema. A protagonist has a markedly different stance from her
negative counterpart. Often she does not occupy much space but maintains demure,
‘feminine’ movements. Within this dichotomy, the antagonist is more authoritative with her
movements and stance yet this can vary. Despite the variations on the themes, the
dichotomous schema remains. This is evident within Destilando Amor and La Dueña.
Whilst the ‘passionate’ protagonists Gaviota and Regina have a strong physicality, it is
reminiscent of their affinity with the land, with Gaviota as agave harvester and Regina as
cattle rancher. This ‘natural’, ‘earthy’ femininity, ‘appropriate’ for the rural setting, is also
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appreciated by the galáns who admire their uncontrived sensuality. In contrast, the
antagonist within these tales becomes increasingly sexualised in a viperish and desperate
manner. This emphasises her ‘unnatural’ femininity compared to the natural and rugged
nature of the protagonist. Thus in opposition to the natural rugged beauty of Gaviota and
Regina, Isadora and Laura are highly sexualised. They are awkward within the country
setting and slink around the domestic space to which they seek to bind the male hero,
effectively threatening his emasculation. This ‘artificial’ sensuality is both unappealing and
threatening to the galán, and assists in their configuration as antagonistic women.
Complimenting this visual divide are the audio qualities of the characters. A protagonist’s
voice is ‘natural’. The demure protagonists do not speak loudly or deeply and their
intonation is light and uncomplicated. Their ‘passionate’ equivalent are unaffected with a
natural strength and authority that manifests in a beautiful singing voice, as with Gaviota.
The antagonist who executes a seductive femininity speaks in a more ‘mature’ and
‘worldly’ drawl. The antagonist who embodies a more ‘masculine’ persona speaks in
abrupt, loud tones and uses brusque vocabulary and turn of phrase.
Following this tradition, Rosalinda’s role as the protagonist and Fedra’s role as the
antagonist is clear from telenovela beginning. It is easy to see that Rosalinda’s pretty
dresses, round features and warm, excitable manner are privileged within the narrative. She
is an unassuming natural beauty, as reflected in her dress, makeup and hair. Her simple
pretty dresses are made of pastel floral print and adorned with delicate bows. They have a
chaste empire-line cut that skims her svelte curves, demurely highlighting her sun-kissed
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arms and legs. Her makeup is very light with only pale pink blush on her honey skin. She
wears dusty-rose eye shadow on her big brown eyes and dark pink lip liner evokes her
plump, naked lips. She wears small single studs in her ear lobes.
Rosalinda’s facial expressions are open and ‘inviting’. Rather than maintain direct eye
contact, she often bows her head and looks up when talking to people. She frequently raises
her eyebrows in incredulity, when talking animatedly. When not flashing in one of her
frequent smiles, her straight white teeth and light pink tongue are seen, as she holds her
mouth open in innocent expectation of life’s wonders. Her vocality is highly affected with
the ‘sing-song’ quality of Mexico City’s working classes. The rapid lightness of this
upwards-inflected dialect is enhanced by the breathy ‘baby’ quality of her voice. This vocal
quality is pleasant and unobtrusive, aided by her frequent use of hushed tones to convey
excitement and awe.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 12- Fedra, Fernando José, Rosalinda
Fedra’s darker clothing, sharp facial features, languid movements and acidic tone contrast
greatly with Rosalinda. She wears dark grey and black as well as harsh yellows and reds.
Fedra’s clothes are often ‘showy’, in sheer and sparkly fabrics. Her long limbs and sleek
physique are often revealed in short skirts, long pants and tight fitting tops. Fedra’s tall,
erect posture contrasts to Rosalinda’s petite curves. Her physicality is stiff and jarring,
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contrasting to the flow of Rosalinda’s energetic yet elegant movement. She frequently
crosses her arms in moments of confrontation or heightened emotion, such as at her
mother’s funeral. These ‘unnatural’ mannerisms profile her ‘superior’ self-regard.
In further contrast to Rosalinda’s round and open features, Fedra’s face lends itself to a
comparatively angular and uninviting beauty. Her facial features and gestures are sharp and
controlled. Her long, wide forehead, piercing eyes and arched eyebrows, point down to her
sharp cheekbones and disproportionately small, thin-lipped mouth. Exaggerated by her pale
foundation, heavy eyeliner and red lipstick, the angles of her face are sharpened by
frequently raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Fedra’s hair is long, straight and dark. She
never wears it up, as its cascading length forms part of her artillery in gaining leverage over
others. Yet such efforts are futile. Consolidating the logic of this audiovisual formula,
Fedra’s and Rosalinda’s ideological values, appearance and behaviour — determined by
their relationship with love — establishes their status within the romantic/nation-building
narrative.
The Tenets of ‘Appropriate Femininity’
Love, Ideological Values & Behaviour
The connection between love, ideological values and behaviour — including relationship to
knowledge and power — can be seen within the characterisation and narrative trajectories
of Rosalinda and Fedra. When Rosalinda first meets the telenovela galán Fernando José,
her status as the ‘loved’ woman is instantly confirmed. Fernando falls instantly in love with
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his ‘pretty rose’ and the narrative follows this rightful path to the union of protagonist and
galán ‘happily ever after’. Yet the narrative that plays out simultaneously to this passage of
true love tells a story of hatred and revenge. Having set his sights on the beautiful and
sweet Rosalinda, her older, more cynical cousin Fedra has no chance of capturing his heart.
However, as per the telenovela rosa schema, this is not the whim of cupid’s arrow.
Rosalinda follows the formula for female characterisation as citizenship within the
telenovela rosa narrative, highlighting several components of the equation through
particular character and plot dynamics.
Fedra’s status as the ‘unloved’ woman is determined by her lack of appeal to Fernando
Jose. Yet rather than be unlucky in love, Fedra’s status is a natural consequence of her
antagonistic relationship with love. Her ambition for personal betterment through wealth
rather than love thus aligns her with the ‘unloved’, to the extent that even her father and
brother assert her inability to love. As her father Xavier says, ‘I doubt that Fedra is capable
of loving anyone’ and her brother Beto later warns her boyfriend Anibar ‘Hey dude, don’t
beg Fedra so much. That one doesn’t love anyone.’
This obsession with wealth and power sees Fedra reject the love that Anibar proffers, and
actively seek to appropriate the love of the wealthy galán;
Fedra: Rosalinda, without even fighting. Without making the least effort, she’s
going to reach all that I’ve ever aspired.
Lucy: She doesn’t aspire to anything Fedra. She sincerely looked for the care, the love of a
good man.
Fedra: And found him super rich, and now she’s going to marry him
Lucy: You can get married too!
Fedra: What! With Anibar? […]
Lucy: I don’t understand why you reject him Fedra
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Fedra: He’s a pauper, a Mr. Nobody.
Fedra obsessively recounts what life with a rich man would be like; ‘I’d have everything. A
mansion, cars, jewels. Ah, if only it were true, if only it were true.’ Consequently, Fedra
rejects Anibar’s love, playing ruthlessly with his feelings and mocking his declarations that
‘I’m no more than a common and ordinary man, I can’t give you luxuries, but I can give
you a great, sincere and faithful love. If you knew the number of times that I have dreamt
with you by my side as my wife, as the mother of my children.’
Set in stark opposition to Rosalinda’s ‘appropriate’ form of loving, Fedra’s ‘romantic
prostitution’ shapes her consequent relationship with the values of ‘appropriate femininity’
and her execution of these tenets of ‘nation building.’ Indeed, whilst both Fedra and
Rosalinda marry and become pregnant within the narrative, only Rosalinda does so
‘appropriately.’ As such, her relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ is
‘natural’, due to her passive execution of these values. Thus her ‘passive’ behaviour
endorses but also secures her choice by the telenovela galán.
Thus the primary logic of Fedra’s characterisation posits that;
Fedra does not benefit from Fernando’s choice of love interest.
⇓
She desires his wealth and power yet he does not choose her.
⇓
Her ambition and self-righteousness thus motivate her lack of complicity with this choice.
⇓
She consequently deploys her inherently ‘unnatural’ activity to appropriate this love for
her own perceived benefit.
⇓
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Fedra’s activity mars her relationship with all aspects of the established order and sees her
corresponding corruption of the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.
Fedra’s active relationship with the values of virginity, matrimony and maternity can be
seen throughout the narrative. To begin, her active sexuality is an affront to the values of
virginity, which posit purity, passivity, insecurity and sentimentality as the correct mode of
behaviour in relation to this sphere. The corruption of Fedra’s virginity comes with her
activity. Even at telenovela beginning, Fedra’s virginity is questionable within her
disregard for the schema of ‘woman + money + public space = prostitution’ (Castillo D.
1998, 13). She embraces the sexual attention that she receives from her boss, who she calls
‘the yobbo.’ Her encouragement of this sexual economy sees her willingly accept to
accompany him on a trip to New York, and allow him to pay for her expenses, including an
extensive new wardrobe. Respectively Rosalinda and Lucy worry about the implications
that this trip, and the dangers that it poses for her ‘virginity’, as Rosalinda says ‘Oh God, I
hope that this trip doesn’t give Fedra any problems. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but, well,
because she feels so sure of herself here, it might be an absolute disaster for her.’ Upon
Fedra’s return, her glamorous new wardrobe impresses them but is tangible proof of her
‘inappropriate femininity’.
Fedra’s decisions throughout the telenovela are motivated by the disregard that she has for
notions of ‘purity’ and is particularly evident when she moves into Fernando’s apartment in
a plan to seduce him, shortly after Rosalinda’s reported death in the sanatorium fire.
Achieved after a drunken night out, the jarring electric guitar music signals the dangerous
sexuality that Fedra uses to seduce Fernando. Without the romantic tropes of candlelight
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and soft music, Fedra’s seduction of Fernando is portrayed as a carnal act. Her active
pursuit in bedding the telenovela galán is evident as the couple embraces drunkenly and
lurches towards the bed. The next morning, as the camera pans from the clothes and shoes
strewn across the floor, it settles on Fernando. As he puts on his shirt and staggers out of
the room he shakes his head in disappointment, chastising himself ‘What happened
Fernando José? What happened?’ In a red sepia flashback, the haunting events come
crashing back to him. Fedra is out of shot, insignificant to the moral dilemma being played
out in Fernando’s groggy head. This absence in the aftermath of the night signals her
antagonistic relationship with virginity by recasting the galán as Fedra’s sexual prey.
Fedra’s use of sexuality to secure a privileged socio-economic position betrays the passivity
required for ‘appropriate’ feminine behaviour. Articulating the severity of this
‘inappropriateness’ is Rosalinda’s shock when she finds out that Fedra slept with Fernando
before their marriage, ‘You… you gave yourself to Fernando José, before marrying him?’
When he later proposes, she has no qualms about marrying a man who does not love her;
Fedra: You say it with a face that doesn’t have anything to do with a declaration of
love
Fernando Jose: I suppose that is not cause for you to reject me
Fedra: Of course not my darling, it’s my greatest desire in the whole world! Give me
a kiss…
Consequently, Fernando flouts the traditional by simply informing Fedra’s father that she
will be his wife. As he tells them; ‘I’m going to marry Fedra. […] I think that Fedra is an
adequate mother for my daughter. At least Erika loves her. She calls her ‘mum.’ She is used
to her. And she won’t be with a stranger but with someone that has so much love for her,
like her true mother.’
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Fedra has a similarly ‘inappropriate’ relationship with motherhood. To begin with, she is
not a devoted daughter. At her mother’s bedside vigil she seems unconcerned and falls
asleep while Rosalinda and Lucy sob. Her crossed arms at her mother’s funeral further
illustrate this lack of personal investment. This translates to her contempt for children, as
she warns; ‘Over my dead body am I going to have children’. Her decision to use Erika as a
tool for manipulating Fernando’s love exemplifies this dynamic, as she says; ‘you’ll be the
most important weapon in conquering your dad. It won’t take long for me to win his
gratitude and love.’ As in all her dealings with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’, Fedra
keeps the child. Thus her true motivations are finally revealed when Rosalinda finally
regains custody of Erika and Fedra states ‘I couldn’t care less if that brat stays at
Rosalinda’s place for ever.’
Fedra’s antagonistic relationship with maternity characterises her own attempts at
motherhood. She is not a natural mother, having to seduce Anibar — who is now married
to her sister Lucy — to finally fall pregnant. So desperate is Fedra to manipulate
motherhood to her own ambitious means, that she disowns her family rather than be forced
to confess the truth about the paternity of her child; ‘I reject you as my family. YOU are no
longer my father, YOU are no longer my sister […] I told you to get out!’ Finally, her
failed pregnancy becomes synonymous with her imminent demise, as she augurs; ‘It’s so
horrible being pregnant. I feel, like I am dying. Honestly, I really feel like I’m dying.’
Rosalinda’s characterisation and narrative trajectory stands in stark contrast to her cousin
Fedra. Where Fedra’s love is motivated by personal agenda or greed, Rosalinda’s is
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unfettered by it. Rosalinda discovers Fernando’s wealth only after falling in love with him
as a poor pianist, and is subsequently unsure if they will be happy together because of their
differences. Her reward for her genuine humility is the adoration of the galán and the
increased social and economic capital that follows. This positive relationship with love
follows through to her positive relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.
Unlike Fedra, she exudes passivity throughout the telenovela, which only serves to confirm
her status as the ‘loved’ woman. This inherently natural relationship that she has with the
tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ is evident throughout the narrative trajectory.
Rosalinda is a twenty-year-old virgin when she meets Fernando. She is both sexually and
romantically ‘clean’, as inferred when she enthuses ‘I love him so much. I have never fallen
in love before. It’s the first time.’ Rosalinda’s behaviour confirms her positive relationship
with ‘virginity’. Indeed when Rosalinda and Fernando have their first date in the park, she
gives him a high five. Rather than present herself to him with ‘active’ sexual premeditation,
her awkwardness and ‘inactivity’ translates into this ‘tomboy’ gesture. This innocence at
his advances further concretes her virginity. Initially her romantic and sexual ‘virginity’
sees her too shy to kiss Fernando and this coyness is slow to disappear.
Even after their elopement Rosalinda covers her face in embarrassment as Fernando jokes
about their impending wedding night. Yet in opposition to Fedra’s carnal relations with
Fernando, the couple is shown lying in front of an open fire, with candles and romantic
music, discussing their elopement. Framed by two candles, they begin to kiss, as the camera
fades out of focus. No flesh is shown, and the camera stays above waist level. Rosalinda’s
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virginity is given as a gift in marriage to her true love. Her wedding night is the only time
that she is seen in a love-making context, thus maintaining her ‘purity’ throughout the
telenovela trajectory.
Rosalinda’s relationship with matrimony similarly subscribes to the inactive paradigm
required for ‘appropriate femininity’. As the galán’s chosen woman, she is rewarded with a
white church wedding by story’s end, and visual clues signal this destiny from telenovela
beginning. Rosalinda is framed gliding down the grand staircase of the restaurant, clutching
a posy of roses, to Fernando awaiting her below. Shot from Fernando’s view, Rosalinda is
seen through his eyes, as his future bride. Yet despite her right to happiness through
marriage to the telenovela galán, Rosalinda is humble in the face of destiny, passively
awaiting her calling. This lack of agenda is evident with her initial rejection of Fernando’s
desire to rush the wedding because, as she explains ‘It’s better if we wait to get married
[…] I need to be sure of you. Even more so that now we are so different […] So that
tomorrow, well, there’s not a little baby that suffers a divorce or a failed marriage, right?’
Rosalinda’s esteem for motherhood informs the reverence that she holds for her own
mother, asking her ‘what more can you give me of value that exceeds a mother’s love?’ Her
maternal respect translates to other mothers. Despite Valeria’s cruelty towards her,
Rosalinda encourages Fernando to overlook these indiscretions, telling him ‘Even if your
mother doesn’t want me, you should not stop going to see her […] a son should not hold a
grudge against his mother. You have to forgive her my love. She gave you life, she is your
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mother!’ Naturally Rosalinda is complete upon the birth of her daughter. As she says;
‘could there possibly be any greater happiness than this?’
The strength of Rosalinda’s maternal instinct even manifests in Paloma — the pop artist
that she becomes upon losing her memory. Although unaware that she has a daughter,
Paloma remains adamant that a child is the ultimate source of happiness in life, chastising
Fernando José who will give up his daughter in order to be with her on tour; ‘How can you
say “I’m giving up my daughter?” It’s like saying “I’m going to let go of my heart, of my
eyes, half of myself” […] There is no love in the world that compensates for the love of a
child.’ When she regains her memory Rosalinda’s decision to renounce her daughter is
further evidence of her maternal instinct, as she says; ‘I asked Fedra to keep looking after
her because I feel that she loves her like a mother and I can’t separate them.’
When Fernando begs Rosalinda to take him back she further sacrifices her happiness for the
well-being of her daughter. Believing that she has a terminal illness, she cannot bring
herself to reconcile with her family; ‘They’ve already cried for me. They’ve already buried
me. I don’t want to cause the pain of my death again. […] For my little daughter and for my
Fernando José, I make this sacrifice of love […] I love them so much, that I give them up.’
Only when she is finally given a clear bill of health, Rosalinda vehemently fights to win
back custody of her child.
Such inactivity is key to Rosalinda’s characterisation and confirms her position as the
suffering female protagonist. In addition to her suffering through madness, ‘death’ in the
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sanatorium fire, memory loss, and the loss of Fernando after his wedding to Fedra and
refusal to leave her due to her terminal illness, Rosalinda’s suffering is also self-imposed.
She continually sacrifices her own happiness for others. Perhaps the scene most indicative
of Rosalinda’s altruism occurs at telenovela end when Fedra has died and there should be
nothing that keeps her from her true love with Fernando José and her daughter Erika. Yet
Rosalinda cannot bring herself to break her engagement with Augustín. As they stand
before the altar, she says ‘I will not be able to be happy if you are unhappy Augustín. No.
My conscience won’t permit it. The memory of having hurt you will hound me all the time,
for my entire life Augustín. No.’ It is only when Augustín allows her to marry Fernando
Jose that she does so.
Knowledge as Power
Following their inherent active or inactive nature, Fedra and Rosalinda relate to power and
knowledge in different ways, which in turn determines their opposing fates within the
narrative. Reminiscent of a list of ten religious ‘commandments’, the telenovela rosa
formula for female characterisation and citizenship is a self-fulfilling prophecy which
states;
1. A protagonist will not use her intelligence to question social norms or manipulate
her place in the social order.
2. Her intelligence is not confronting to the telenovela galán, but rather is cooperative
and complicit.
3. She does not seek to prove herself as she benefits from a self-abnegation that
requires no assertion.
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4. As she benefits from the galán’s choice of love interest, she is complicit with his
authority to choose.
5. Her approval by the telenovela galán further secures her inactive relationship with
knowledge.
6. She is thus inactive and has neither the desire to question social norms nor need for
knowledge to manipulate her place within the social order
As the suffering protagonist, Rosalinda remains ignorant of integral facts surrounding her
existence including that of her paternity. Similarly, her madness, consequential memory
and identity loss and moreover her belief that she is dying from a terminal illness,
epitomize the lack of knowledge that characterizes her persona. In relation to the concept
that ‘knowledge is power’ this ignorance exemplifies Rosalinda’s passivity, ‘appropriate
femininity’ and ironically, her ultimate access to the site of empowerment via the love of
the galán. Indeed, characterising the ‘feedback loop’ of female characterisation within the
Mexican telenovela rosa, the inherent power that accompanies Rosalinda’s position as the
‘chosen/loved’ woman determines her passivity.
Thus Rosalinda ‘is GOOD because she is LOVED’, and does not resort to ‘active’ methods
to win the love of the telenovela galán. Indeed, her inherent ‘goodness’ and positive
relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ would never lead to such activity.
Thus the ‘Protagonist is ‘LOVED because she is GOOD’ such that Rosalinda’s position as
the loved woman is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
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In contrast;
7. An antagonist is cunning and manipulative, using her intelligence as a weapon to
confront social norms and manipulate her place in the social order.
8. As she does not benefit from galán’s choice, she is not complicit with his authority
to choose.
9. Her self-righteousness and desire for power motivate her to actively seek to
appropriate his love, which in turn determines her pursuit of female rivalry within
the narrative.
10. This antagonistic desire for power is driven by her status as the ‘unloved’ woman
within the narrative, and thereby necessitates her cunning and manipulative use of
knowledge and corruption of the tenets of appropriate femininity to gain leverage
over others.
Within her analysis of the telenovela’s power dynamics, Cynthia Duncan provides a
psychoanalytical insight into the antagonist’s plight. For Duncan, ‘The typical love triangle
which forms the basis for so many telenovela plots […] can easily be read as a reenactment
of Freud’s oedipal drama’ (Duncan 1995, 91). Here, ‘the strong male hero can be seen as
the representative of phallic power, as the all-powerful, all-knowing Father’ (Duncan 1995,
91). Within this schema, ‘males, by the privilege accorded their gender, are seen as already
in possession of the Phallus, but females can only acquire the illusion of access to it by
harnessing themselves to a powerful male’ (Duncan 1995, 91). Aware that the galán is
powerful and respected, the antagonist’s desire to appropriate his love is a desire for access
to this site of empowerment for her own perceived benefit.
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Fedra’s obsessive desire to appropriate Fernando’s love away from Rosalinda can be
understood as a desire for access to the phallic power held by this male figure. She is active
because she does not have access to this power. Intimately aware that ‘knowledge is
power’, Fedra uses gossip and insinuation to manipulate situations in order to secure more
privilege within the ‘tidy nation.’ Fedra’s secret knowledge of Rosalinda’s biological
parentage, her knowledge that Rosalinda did not die but is in fact the famous singer
Paloma, and her deception of her own child’s paternity, all indicate the level of deception
that she deploys throughout the telenovela. Fedra’s use of lies enables her to manipulate
perceptions of herself and others, such as when she tells Anibar that Fernando beats her, in
order to seek his consolation and to seduce him.
Here, Fedra is ‘BAD because she is UNLOVED’. Yet her self-righteousness and negative
relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ are not merely the result of this
position. They also motivate it. Thus she is ‘UNLOVED because she is BAD’. Her position
as the unloved woman is a self-fulfilling prophecy, making her fate inevitable despite her
fight to change it. Her execution of female rivalry throughout the narrative is testament to
this plight.
Trajectories of the Female Dichotomy
Rivalry
Rivalry is evident early in the narrative, when Fedra snipes that Rosalinda was always
Xavier’s favourite. This ‘complex’, conceivably the origin of her quest for empowerment
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via association with male authority, sees her compete with Rosalinda throughout the
narrative. Initially, Fedra’s jealousy originates from Rosalinda’s ‘perfect’ beauty, optimism
and altruism. She despises Rosalinda’s ‘goodness.’ Upon discovering Fernando’s wealth,
Fedra becomes further infuriated that Rosalinda is unfairly blessed with good fortune. As
the opportunity to appropriate Rosalinda’s happiness becomes available, Fedra pounces.
Thus, Fedra finds it difficult to hide her delight when she discovers that Rosalinda has gone
mad, as she brags to Lucy; ‘Hey, what do you think Fernando José will do if Rosalinda
never gets better? […] He will divorce her. I am sure, and then, he’ll be free to
marry…another…’
Rosalinda’s subsequent ‘death’ in the sanatorium fire further facilitates Fedra’s plans, and
she sets about helping Fernando to forget Rosalinda. Yet when Paloma captures the
affections of her new husband, Fedra’s rivalry is reborn and she hides the singer’s true
identity. When Rosalinda’s memory returns, Fedra resorts to making her life miserable by
preventing a reunion with her daughter, feigning pregnancy to the telenovela galán and
flaunting her ‘happiness’ with Fernando.30
Playing on the male fears of sexual betrayal by woman that are found at the core of
machismo and the virgin/whore dichotomy, Fedra attempts to sully Rosalinda’s purity by
emphasising her transgressions to Fernando. This is a common trope within female rivalry,
as to appropriate the position of the ‘chosen’ woman, the antagonist attempts to disqualify
30
As she brags to her in the following exchange, when she comes over to Rosalinda and Augustín in the
restaurant; ‘I won’t deny that I live very happily. I have EVERYTHING; comfort, a husband that adores me,
who showers me with attention and gifts. But above all else, I have the enormous pleasure of awaiting the
child born form the deep, intense love that there is between Fernando José and myself.’
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the protagonist as a legitimate option for marriage and motherhood. Correspondingly,
Rosalinda cannot understand his mistrust and deems his allegations a betrayal of their true
love.
Yet whilst the protagonist may be heartbroken, her dignity prevents her from actively
pursuing the telenovela galán. Her passivity within such narrative developments contrasts
sharply with the antagonist’s activity, as does her failure to engage with the female rivalry
that destabilises her world. Thus whilst the galán is disenfranchised by his true love’s
‘betrayal’ and the protagonist is wounded by his rejection, the antagonist cunningly uses
this moment to appropriate the heroine’s place. Usually vigilant towards the unwanted
advances of the antagonist, the galán’s devastation sees his judgment lapse. Fedra’s
‘pregnancy’ to Fernando illustrates this perfectly, and acts as a key site of the female
transgression that follows the melodramatic developments of female rivalry within the
Mexican telenovela rosa.
Transgression
Female transgression is key to the melodramatic stamina of the telenovela rosa, as blurring
the Manichaeism of the female dichotomy causes much anxiety within the narrative.
Rosalinda invests heavily in narrating the disruption caused when circumstance sees these
characters’ expand beyond the respective roles assigned them within the narrative. Posed as
dangerous terrain, whereby the essentialist dichotomy becomes blurred, Rosalinda flirts
with Fedra’s dissimulation of the virgin role, as well as Rosalinda’s slide from grace. This
phase of the telenovela narrative, whereby the female characters transgress their polarised
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role, creates moments of high dramatic tension as the established order falls apart. The
discordant music that accompanies these scenes conveys the chaos that such a disruption of
the ‘natural order’ entails.
Aware that she must operate under the virginal guise of the protagonist, the antagonist
attempts to dissimulate. Curbing her ‘inappropriate’ hunger for power, she presents an
‘inactive’ façade to the galán. Fedra attempts to appeal to the male characters who she
believes that she can benefit from simulating passivity. This inactivity translates into both
visual and behavioural characteristics. When Fedra first begins to seduce Fernando, she
curls her hair in an apparent attempt to ‘soften’ herself according to his tastes. Her facial
expressions also become softer as she tries to win over Fernando’s heart. Fedra changes her
fixed stare, simultaneously lowering her gaze with her status. In place of her usual sideways
sneer she smiles openly, and her movements become lighter. She attempts to animate her
entire face in order to appeal to Fernando. Her usual facial expression, which see the
stillness of her upper half and exaggerated use of her mouth and teeth in articulating her
words, is replaced by a synchronism between her features, as they work towards conveying
a light, uncalculating ‘innocence’. Fedra’s voice similarly changes to what she considers to
be an inoffensive ‘girly’ tone.
Fedra’s dissimulation manifests in her romantic relations with Fernando when she tells him
‘I’ll know how to wait. I’m sure that some day you will end up loving me, as much as I
love you.’ It also manifests in supposed maternal instinct, as she tells him; ‘I would do
anything for your daughter.’ This is further evident when she tells Rosalinda that she would
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be thrilled to take custody of her daughter; ‘There’s no need to ask me Rosalinda. I do it
with such pleasure. I love Erika as if she were my own.’ Yet, despite the success of Fedra’s
virginal guise her true intentions remain clear throughout the telenovela narrative.
Indeed, the passivity that Fedra feigns upon marrying Fernando is not confused with that
which Rosalinda displays in relation to love. Similarly, Fedra’s newfound maternal instinct
is understood as leverage over both Rosalinda and Fernando José. Thus whilst Fedra may
simulate ‘virginity’ within the telenovela, her loaded remarks, private monologues, smirk
and raised eyebrows reveal her true antagonistic ‘activity’.
However whilst the transgression of the antagonist causes much drama within the
melodramatic plot — and helps to maintain suspense throughout the lengthy narrative — it
is the virgin’s plight that really concerns the telenovela story. Often due to the injustice that
she feels when the galán questions her purity, the virgin becomes cynical about love. This
transgression of innocence may be accompanied by an abandonment of other key aspects of
‘goodness’ such as cooperation and gentleness. She may become more masculine in her
dress, and adopt a stronger more demanding character. She may lean towards those other
tropes of the ‘whore’ such as heavier make up, elaborate hair designs and revealing
clothing. Often due to her different role in the public sphere, this physical change may
occur as she takes up a job that requires her to dress in a more provocative manner, as
evident when Mariana is employed as a casino hostess in Mariana de la Noche and
Rosalinda becomes a famous singer.
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Whilst the story of the “fallen woman” is ‘one of the most common literary devices in
world fiction’ (Leal 240) and found its forte in the Mexican context within the popular
Cabaretera dance hall films of the 1940s31, the Mexican telenovela does not narrate the
demise of the essentially ‘good’ woman due to circumstance. In terms of the leading female
roles, telenovelas operate within the notion that essentially ‘good’ or ‘bad’ women may
become momentarily waylaid due to circumstance. Thus whilst the protagonist may
transgress some aspects of ‘appropriate femininity’, she stays true to her status as the
virginal woman. She may become cynical about love, but she does not abandon her
maternal instincts, kindness or inherent goodness. Most importantly, she does not abandon
her sexual purity. Ultimately, she finds her path again, back to her true love and destiny
within the ‘tidy nation.’
Due to the particularly convoluted nature of Rosalinda, there are four stages of protagonist
transgression throughout the narrative. These stages, which include Rosalinda’s mental
breakdown; her memory loss and time as Paloma; her subsequent memory gain and belief
that she has a terminal illness; and finally her attempts to regain custody of her daughter, all
mark subsequent stages of transgression in her relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate
femininity’. Each of these stages is significant and contributes to the last and most profound
stage of transgression within the narrative.
31
Dolores Tierney explains this construct; ‘The archetypal figures of the cabaretera film were defined
through the sacrifice of their bodies as sexual objects for men and for their families: in Salon Mexico,
Mercedes literally gives her life for her sister […] as a ‘fallen woman’ Mercedes is excluded from, rather than
recuperated by, society’ (Tierney 1997, 353-4).
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When Rosalinda goes mad, she becomes a wild woman. She is not weighed down by social
graces but is often mean, selfish, suspicious and angry. So lost from her true self is this
Rosalinda that she rejects her daughter when presented with her at the hospital, shouting ‘I
don’t want it! That isn’t her. That is not my daughter.’ Upon returning home, Rosalinda
oscillates between childish vulnerability and wild rage. At one point she throws Fernando
to the ground and bares her teeth at him. All maternal and matrimonial instinct appears lost.
Paloma is, as Fernando puts it, ‘a woman of the world.’ Rosalinda’s pretty clothes are left
behind, as Paloma’s glamorous wardrobe reflects the impending ‘worldliness’ that comes
with her increasing fame. Her transparent and satin clothing, her elaborate evening gowns
and expensive jewels are worldlier than Rosalinda’s feminine garb. Paloma has a different
beauty to Rosalinda. She is seen carefully applying makeup, and when Fernando asks her
on a date, she tells him she will take a long time to get ready, as opposed to the uncontrived
‘natural’ beauty that he first fell in love with. Her elaborate makeup and hairstyles show
this more contrived femininity. Paloma’s sexuality confuses Fernando who chastises her
inconsistency; ‘At times you appear to be a romantic young woman, a dreamer. Other times
a happy little girl. Other times an intense and passionate woman. Tell me, which of these
women are you really?’
Yet despite the apparent transgression of the protagonist’s maternal instinct, ‘virginity’ and
passivity during these narrative developments, the dramatic tension that they cause is
contextualised by Rosalinda’s altered state of mind. Indeed, Rosalinda may appear to
corrupt the notion of ‘appropriate femininity’ when she rejects her daughter, yet her mental
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illness explains this temporary lapse. In fact, this insanity comes as a result of Rosalinda’s
deeply maternal instinct. According to the hospital’s psychologist, when Rosalinda ‘turns
mad’ it is because of the corruption of this ontological state. So pure and vulnerable after
the birth of her child, Rosalinda is not able to process the terrible family secrets that Valeria
reveals. So when Valeria steals her baby, Rosalinda becomes insane. Consequently, this
memory loss justifies Paloma’s occupation of the public sphere. Whilst her fame among
male fans and her use of elaborate and revealing showgirl costumes is considered impure
by Fernando, Rosalinda’s transgression is contextualised by the ‘forgetting’ of her true
identity.
Rosalinda’s third stage of transgression is also justified when she regains her memory yet
believes that she has a terminal illness. Despite Fernando’s pleas, Rosalinda refuses to give
up her career as Paloma. Fernando’s world turns upside down when he finally admits to
himself that his precious Rosalinda is not the virginal girl that he once thought; ‘I’ve been
such an idiot. […] All my life I’ve had it there right in front of me! There, right in front of
my eyes, but I have denied seeing it; Rosalinda, Rosalinda is nothing more than a whore.’
Fernando’s feelings are confirmed when he disgustedly watches her performance in front of
a sea of male fans. His confrontation of Rosalinda sees him denounce her supposed
preference for the public sphere and ‘the admiration and the company of various men,
instead of the love of a husband’.
Unable to understand Rosalinda’s preference for what he deems to be a ‘cheap circus […]
over being a wife and mother!’ Fernando concludes that ‘for any decent woman the most
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important thing is to be a wife and mother, but there do also exist some women like you
who prefer to show off half naked in a theatre and reap applause instead of enjoying love
and motherhood.’ This preference for the public sphere over domesticity remains
unfathomable for Fernando who declares ‘Now I see what you swapped me for, what you
exchanged your daughter for. […] everything is so clear, vulgar, that clothing that you use,
your image. What pity I feel for you Rosalinda’. Rosalinda’s transgressions are an affront
to Fernando’s masculinity, such that
I feel pity for myself, for having been so naïve, so stupid! […]My mother was right; you
don’t deserve my love, nor my respect, nor my affection. And much less, much less my
surname. […] I realise that what I think means nothing to you, but I won’t keep it to
myself, I’m going to shout it in your face, because you deserve it; you are a cheap whore.
Fernando José’s corresponding revenge is to prevent her from having contact with her
daughter, in order to prevent ‘contamination’ of her bad values; ‘I’m not going to expose
my daughter to your bad example. I would prefer for her to grow, thinking that you are
dead, before, before having the shame of knowing, of knowing what type of woman you
are.’ He promptly tells her that he will give her the divorce that she deserves; ‘Tomorrow,
at first light, I will begin divorce proceedings.’
Yet unbeknownst to Fernando José, Rosalinda’s transgression is a façade. She tries to
explain but cannot, saying ‘What I want most in the world is to go back to having a family
with you, with my little girl, to have a home, you have to believe me’. Indeed, Rosalinda’s
moments alone and conversations with Soledad confirm that she would prefer Fernando to
think she is a whore, rather than suffer the ‘impending death’ of her ‘terminal illness’. Thus
whilst Rosalinda’s transgression may be problematic for the telenovela galán, her essential
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‘virginity’ remains clear. Indeed whilst Fernando José may condemn Rosalinda for being
lured by the bright city lights, Rosalinda’s commitment clearly lies with the private sphere
throughout the telenovela. She does not seek the limelight, and lingers only to prevent the
pain of her loved ones.
The next stage of Rosalinda’s transgression, however, is the most problematic. Upon
realising that she does not have a terminal illness, Rosalinda runs to Fernando’s side,
desperate to fulfil her role as wife and mother. Yet Fernando’s refusal to listen to her
explanation disenchants her. As he tells her; ‘I don’t want to listen to you. Don’t you
remember how you treated me? You must have felt so proud having me begging at your
feet. Of course, surely that is your tactic for manipulating all of the men chasing you. […] I
don’t want to hear even one more of your lies Rosalinda. […] don’t bother. Don’t even
bother making something up. Whatever you say, I’m not going to believe you. Anyway,
what kind of value can the word of a whore like you have?’ She feels betrayed by his belief
that she is truly a whore and so becomes cynical about love, declaring; ‘I’m warning you
[…] the Rosalinda that you once knew, well you’ll never see her ever again. Because I will
drown this love. I will drown it in the depths of my pride. And now you will know who I
really am, when I am hurt in the depths of my soul.’
This antagonistic relationship with love forms her genuine engagement with the sphere of
activity. Adopting a more professional and calculating manner towards Fernando, she
attempts to regain custody of her daughter;
To you I’m the worst type of woman. Without even giving me the chance to explain myself
you have condemned me. […] Just know that I am going to fight with all of my strength to
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get my daughter back by my side. You are entirely in your right to reject me, but my
daughter, you will never take my daughter away from me.
Rosalinda’s newfound activity manifests in a desire for power, which informs her
friendship with the businessman Augustín. She admits that she is attracted to Augustín
‘Because he has a lot of money and enormous power’. This terrifies her mother who warns
‘you have never been interested in that.’ Fernando shares Soledad’s concern about
Rosalinda’s integrity, asserting that ‘everyone has a price, including Rosalinda’. Despite
Soledad’s assertion that ‘My daughter is not for sale, nor does she receive gifts from some
vulgar unknown guy who thinks that just because he has money he has the right to buy
her’, Rosalinda compromises her integrity. Effectively selling herself to Augustín, she
trades a date for expensive jewelry. Here the equation of ‘Woman + Money + Public space
= Prostitute’ comes into play. When Rosalinda dines with the businessman she plays up to
Fernando’s fears; as the rubies flash around her neck, she giggles and talks animatedly with
the businessman, staring languidly at Fernando and relishing his disgust.
This stage of transgression is the most profound and Rosalinda’s existence in the public
sphere no longer appears to be motivated by self-sacrifice. Rosalinda seems far from the
sweet and honest protagonist that she has truly been throughout the previous stages of
transgression. It would seem that her rage cannot be mollified, and she threatens the
passivity once characteristic of her status. She seeks revenge on Fernando José and Fedra
such that she plans to teach them ‘A lesson that they will never forget.’
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Yet despite her transgression within this phase of the telenovela, Rosalinda’s maternal
instinct, kindness and inherent goodness are not abandoned. Whilst she may continue to
denounce love, telling Fernando José in resignation that ‘our love, that is something of the
past’, she does not condemn her daughter or family, and her self-sacrifice continues in her
decision to marry Augustín in order to provide a father for her daughter. As she explains to
her sleeping daughter; ‘My little girl. I’m going to marry Augustín. […] So that you can
have a home, a real family […] I am prepared to do anything for you little one. Even marry
without love.’
Thus despite Rosalinda’s desire for revenge against Fernando José and abandonment of
love, her core remains ‘appropriately feminine’ as she is motivated by self-sacrifice and the
happiness of others. Despite her activity, Rosalinda’s essence remains faithful to the private
sphere. She maintains that her happiness lies in making a home and gives up her career in
order to mother her child without disturbance. Indeed, as easily as fame came to her she
gives it up, telling her manager ‘you won’t have to keep representing me anymore […] I am
going to abandon my artistic career.’ It is clear that even in the moments of transgression
when Rosalinda strays from her path, she will return to her destiny in the arms of Fernando
José, and the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the ‘tidy nation’.
By telenovela end, there are no vestiges of the transgressive Rosalinda left behind. Despite
once voicing to Lucy that ‘he has insulted me, he has offended me in the worst way
possible for a woman’, she is able to forgive Fernando José’s betrayal completely. She
resorts to her passive nature and correct execution of the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.
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She is worthy of the white rose that Fernando José tucks behind her ear on their wedding
day, as they ride into the distance.
The narrative relief occasioned by the ‘happy ending’ consolidates this schema. Here,
where mistaken identity, miscommunication and ill twists of fate are finally eradicated, so
too is the potential for female transgression to break with the dichotomous schema of
female characterisation and citizenship. Framed as threatening sites of melodramatic
tension that must be closed down, this threat is explicitly conveyed within the narrative;
from the ominous music that underlies these scenes, to the dialogue that conveys the
concern of members of the community, female transgression serves to highlight the danger
of a breakdown in the female dichotomy.
The telenovela’s ‘flirtation’ with these ‘dangerous’ sites of transgression is thrilling but
ultimately serves to consolidate traditional Manichaean configurations of characterisation
and citizenship. Indeed, the ‘happy ending’ that sees the closure of these transgressive sites,
and the galán’s relief at his protagonist’s return to ‘normal’, provides a fundamental means
for constructing the ideal community by telenovela end. Integral to this reinforcement of
the Manichaean female dichotomy is female rivalry. By playing women off against each
other throughout the transgressive moments within the narrative trajectory, a Manichaean
female characterisation remains intact and the possibility of a ‘union’ between the ‘good’
and ‘bad’ aspects of femininity is denied.
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As the narrative concludes, both the protagonist and antagonist are relegated to their role
and the rejection of ‘interstitial’ spaces sees any potential sites of resistance or change swept
away (Robolin 2004, 79). It is this prevention of the ‘union’ of ‘opposing’ femininity that
relates so closely to the exclusionary discourses surrounding femininity that links the
maintenance of the ‘tidy nation’ onscreen to Mexican Government policy during periods of
nation-construction.
The ‘Morality’ & ‘Justice’ of Female Citizenship
Despite Fedra’s and Rosalinda’s transgression, it is the telenovela rosa’s emphasis on
morality and justice that resolves these sites by telenovela end. Rosalinda bids farewell to
an immoral active public life as the famous singer Paloma, regaining her position as wife
and mother within the domestic sphere. Fedra’s fraudulent relationship with the tenets of
‘appropriate femininity’ spells her doom. Where Rosalinda is married in a white Church
wedding to her true love, before the blessing of God, the Virgin of Guadalupe and her
family and friends, Fedra dies in a hospital bed without repentance. She is correspondingly
exiled from the telenovela’s ‘ideal’ community before childbirth. Both Fedra and her child
die; representing an end to the potential disturbance to the ‘tidy nation’ that the whore
mother entails.
This moral and just ending exemplifies the process of female citizenship within the
idealised national space. Yet just as the qualities of women are signaled by audio/visual
traits, their relationship with the national space is codified throughout. Rosalinda’s affinity
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with ‘Mexicanness’ is evident throughout the telenovela via her inadvertent endorsement of
nationally resonant iconography. Unlike Fedra whose identity involves a rejection of the
‘truly Mexican’, Rosalinda is often framed within the national space; whether visiting her
dad at the Plaza de Garibaldi in Mexico City, where mariachi sing the hymns of the nation,
or in her endorsement of the neighbourhood, as the best place to be. Her use of
colloquialisms and her accent — on par with the ‘popular’ classes of Mexico City — show
her affinity with the nation. Unlike Fedra whose ambition rejects her humble upbringing,
Rosalinda is proud of her ‘people’.
Furthermore, Rosalinda’s affinity with the Catholic Church and in particular, the Virgin of
Guadalupe, aligns her with the national iconography of ‘appropriate femininity’.
Rosalinda’s positive relationship with virginity is confirmed through the ongoing
appearance of the image of the Virgin in her daily life. Evident when she meets with
Fernando José in front of a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe in the marketplace where she
sells flowers, the Virgin effectively consecrates their love. Yet it is also reinforced by her
conscious supplication to the Virgin throughout the telenovela, as is seen when she thanks
the Virgin for saving her from her terminal illness; ‘Oh mum, I want to go and give thanks
to the virgin. Only she and my father could have given me this miracle.’
Even during the stages of Rosalinda’s transgression, the presence of the Virgin ensures that
her true essence remains clear. This is evident when her church attendance is casually
dropped into conversation, (‘is it true you ate something when you left church?’) and when
she begs the Virgin to help her. As Antonio Serrano explains, within Televisa telenovelas,
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‘all problems are resolved by praying to the Virgin’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January) and
true to form, Rosalinda prays;
Sweet Virgin of Guadalupe, help me, please, please don’t abandon me in those moments
when I need you. You are the mother of all Mexicans and you understand my pain without
my daughter by my side. Even though I prefer this so that she doesn’t suffer my death.
Give me strength. Give me strength and give me resignation mother of mine. Protect my
daughter, my mother, all of my loved ones, including Fernando José, even though he looks
down on me. Please don’t forget about me sweet Virgin. Please, guide my path, please.
Compared to such piety, Fedra’s refusal to repent to God even on her deathbed sees her
unfit for citizenship within this ‘ideal imagined’ Mexico.
A ‘Break’ from the Telenovela Rosa?
‘All that we are looking to do is sell a fantasy to the people’
—Salvador Mejía, Producer of Rosalinda
The publicity leading to Rosalinda’s debut on the first of March 1999, pinned its impending
success on both its star power as well as its subscription to a proven formula. Indeed, the El
Universal newspaper proclaimed ‘Rosalinda will become a success, just like “Marimar”,
“María Mercedes” and “María la del barrio”’ (Anon. 1999a, n.p.). Invoking these three
Thalia-driven successes known as ‘Las Marias’, producer Salvador Mejía confirmed that
the success of this trilogy starring Mexico’s then telenovela sweetheart, guaranteed that of
Rosalinda (Jessica 1999, n.p.). He explained that the formula was in place, such that they
would ‘present the public with a telenovela full of romanticism, because it is what
telenovela audiences most love’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.).
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Mejía explained that this romanticism was in line with the times, as ‘we have tried to stick
with the Hollywood trend, where the public has shown a preference for everything
romantic, with films such as ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and ‘Titanic’’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.). This
international scope was an inherent part of Rosalinda’s conceptualisation, with Mejía
pronouncing that ‘we don’t only address the Mexican public, but also the foreign, which is
why we have given a more international touch to the story’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.). The sale of
Rosalinda to over one hundred countries before filming began confirms the appeal of this
romantic formula. Declaring that ‘for a novela to work’ — both at home and internationally
— ‘it needs to have a combination of drama, reality and fantasy’ Mejía assured that
Rosalinda ‘has all of these ingredients’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.).
Yet the failure for Mejía’s prophecies to transpire in Mexico— despite the success of the
novela transnationally— speaks volumes about the changing climate within the Mexican
telenovela industry at the time of its production. Soon after its debut, the press began to
criticise Rosalinda’s formulaic nature. Suggesting that ‘Thalia returns with a conventional
story’, and that Rosalinda ‘is a copy of "María la del Barrio", "María Mercedes" and
"Marimar"’ (Anon. 1999b, n.p.) critics problematised the novela’s subscription to the
traditional rosa formula. According to the critics, it was the ‘abundance of “close ups” of
raised eyebrows and the gesticulaciones of an explosive villain’ that ‘came straight from
the manual’ (Rondero 1999, n.p.). Similarly, Rosalinda was ‘a script determined to
bombard us with […] [colloquialisms] that were made famous in the films of [Pedro]
Infante […] over fifty years ago’ (Rondero 1999, n.p.).
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Such criticism was unprecedented, targeting key aspects of the formula such as ‘The rich
boy with the double-barrel name who pretends to be poor, the sweet and beautiful young
woman, more innocent than a girl from kindergarten […] in love with the galán […] and of
course the irreplaceable stepsisters taken straight from ‘Cinderella’ version remix’
(Rondero 1999, n.p.). Suddenly it was deemed negligent to rely on the success of previous
hits, such as the ‘Las Marias’ trilogy, to justify a project. Somewhat unprecedented in an
industry of remakes and adaptations, this criticism was vehemently rejected by Mejía.
Declaring that the press had ‘tried to boycott his melodrama’, and that his colleagues had
‘tried to campaign so that my novela would be moved to another timeslot’ he accused them
of tall poppy syndrome (cited in Mendoza González 1999, n.p.).
However, fiction soon met reality. Rumours circulated that Rosalinda would be cut by
seventy episodes — which equated to 28% or three months on air. Mejía denied such a
reduction, declaring 'I do not know where they got that from, I have never spoken to
anyone about it and in fact, this is the last interview I’ll give about the novela’ (cited in
Mendoza González 1999, n.p.). However, despite the bravado, Mejía could not deny that
Rosalinda had failed to fulfill its expectations. In its first week, Rosalinda reached an
average rating of only 29.2 points, which placed it in fifth place of the top ten programs,
and in third place for telenovelas (Anon. 1999c, n.p.). Ratings during Rosalinda’s last week
only reached 28.4 points, compared to 44 points for its predecessor (Anon. 1999c, n.p.).
With certain ‘modifications’ to its plot to make it ‘more agile and dynamic’ (Anon. 1999c,
n.p.) Rosalinda ended on the eighteenth of June 1999, after less than four months on air.
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Admitting that ‘nobody is a prophet in his own land’ (Mendoza González 1999, n.p.) Mejía
finally seemed to admit defeat.
Whilst not performing terribly, Rosalinda’s ratings did not reflect its star power or its
‘privileged’ position during telenovela primetime, as co-producer Antonio Quintana
admitted, ‘they’re not bad but you always expect more when working with a figure like
Thalia’ (Anon. 1999c, n.p.). Critics were more candid, declaring that ‘far from benefiting
Thalia’ the novela ‘had damaged her image by being the worst telenovela that she had
starred in’ (Anon. 1999d, n.p.). Indeed, Rosalinda saw the end of Thalia’s career as
Mexico’s telenovela sweetheart. She never returned to the telenovela genre, deciding
instead to focus on her singing career, which involved a high profile wedding to the US
music producer Tommy Mottola.
However, most interesting about the critics’ reaction to the failed telenovela, was their
assertion that ‘the formula ran out’ (Anon. 1999e, n.p.). Whilst not explicit within these
reviews, the notion that Rosalinda was out of touch with the desires of the telenovela
audience was ever present. They seemed to enjoy the failure of this ‘Cinderella’ narrative,
declaring that ‘Rosalinda’s failure to meet expectations proves that remakes of remakes
don’t get you very far’ (Anon. 1999e, n.p.).
Produced in the same year that Televisa’s competitor TV Azteca produced its famous
telenovelas de ruptura, El Candidato (‘The Candidate’) and La Vida en el Espejo (‘Life in
the Mirror’) Rosalinda seemed remarkably obsolete. Furthermore, in light of Televisa’s
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efforts to conform to the ‘rupturous’ times via telenovelas such as Tres Mujeres (‘Three
Women’), Rosalinda’s faithful adherence to the traditional rosa formula was arguably the
reason for its failure. As such, Rosalinda provides an interesting development within the
changing context of the Mexican telenovela industry. As pertinent precursor to the study of
the telenovela de ruptura in the following chapter, Rosalinda proves that even the prettiest
rose has its thorns.
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Chapter Five
The Limitations of Resistance within the
Telenovela de Ruptura
Chapter Five: The Limitations of Resistance within the telenovela de ruptura
‘Life is more complicated than it seems’
— Theme Song of Vivir Sin Ti (‘Living Without You’)
In light of the ‘rose tinted’ telenovelas studied in chapter four, this chapter looks at the
extent of ‘rupture’ within those so called telenovela de ruptura texts that ‘burst’ onto the
‘scene’ in the mid nineteen-nineties, yet which arguably declined less than a decade later.
By theorising the demise of this ‘revolutionary’ genre, this chapter seeks to understand not
only the context for its downfall, but also the extent to which these texts were truly
‘rupturous’ of both form and content. Thus whilst the ‘type’ of ‘nation’ constructed within
these texts may have been promoted as a ‘realistic’ revision of the ‘tidy nation’ found
within the more traditional telenovela form, a closer examination of the race, class and
gender dynamics of El Candidato (‘The Candidate’- TV Azteca 1999) and Mirada de
Mujer (‘The Look of a Woman’- TV Azteca 1997) explores this ‘reality’. This analysis
ultimately reveals little challenge to the representational dynamics of the telenovela de
ruptura’s predecessors.
By providing a more ‘nuanced’ understanding of what is meant by ‘rupture’, this chapter
questions the possibility of even ‘rupturing’ the telenovela’s representational schema, due
to both genre prerequisites and industry imperatives. Here an understanding of the thematic
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and structural dynamics of the telenovela de ruptura —specifically the maintenance of the
romantic love story at the heart of these texts —helps to explain their subscription to a
Manichaean melodramatic narrative structure. The exclusionary citizenship and ‘tidy’
versions of ‘the nation’ that this perpetuates follows. As such, this chapter explores the
‘limitations’ to a revision of female citizenship within the telenovela de ruptura texts
surveyed.
But first, in order to gauge the female citizenship at play within the telenovelas examined
here, it is crucial to determine the type of ‘nation’ that is on display. Is it a ‘tidy’ nation? Is
it a nation more attuned to the ‘social reality’ beyond the borders of the ‘ideal imagined’
Mexico? In contrast to the ‘blurred or neutralized’ reference to ‘places and times’ (MartínBarbero 1995, 279) often configured within the traditional telenovela text, does this nation
‘rupture’ such ‘anonymity’ via an articulation of ‘a specifically national reality’ (MartínBarbero 1995, 279)? Certainly the origins and promotion of the telenovela de ruptura
suggest the importance of a specific time and place to its representation of the nation.
The Rise of the Telenovela de Ruptura
As outlined in chapter two, the ‘birth’ of the telenovela de ruptura in Mexico can be
attributed to important developments throughout the nineteen-nineties. The end of two
powerful Mexican regimes came during this period and helped to shape the changing face
of Mexican telenovela production. In fact, the demise of these two regimes are inextricably
intertwined, as TV Azteca’s 1993 arrival on the monopolistic landscape of the Mexican
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telenovela industry marked the end of an era within Mexican politics, when the newly
elected president Ernesto Zedillo announced that ‘the government would no longer control
the media’ (Quiñones 2001, 71). This acknowledgement of the new playing field came with
the move to a neoliberal economy in 1994, which, as part of Mexico’s signing of the North
American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) incorporated television content as a free trade
commodity. As part of the same democratic drive that ultimately marked the end of the PRI
government’s 71-year rule in 2000, the government sale of ‘two of its stations to a recently
formed network known as Television Azteca’ (Quiñones 2001, 71) was to create a different
social and cultural context for telenovela production. Indeed the realist bent of these ‘new
wave’ telenovelas became ‘a barometer of the slow crumbling of a tired regime’ (Quiñones
1998b, 45).
Alberto Barrera, author of Nada Personal and Demasiado Corazón, argued at the time that
‘Mexico is oxygenating’ (cited in Quiñones 1998b, 45). Stating that ‘Five years ago we
could not have done [these shows]’, he identified the rise of the telenovela de ruptura with
that of democracy within the political sphere; ‘I think right now in Mexico there’s a kind of
anxiousness for democracy. Before it was a society unaccustomed to competing, in politics,
television, anything. Now its beginning to get used to it.’ (cited in Quiñones 1998b, 45).
Indeed other social commentators confirmed this connection. Film actress turned politician
Maria Rojo suggested that ‘Society has demanded change, politically, economically, as
well as in the telenovela’ (cited in Quiñones 1998b, 41). Similarly, scholars Rowe and
Schelling suggested that ‘it is in the changing styles of the telenovelas themselves that the
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pressures of changing contemporary social history are manifest’ (Rowe and Schelling 1991,
109).
With hits like Nada Personal (‘Nothing Personal’ 1996) Al Norte del Corazón (‘North of
the Heart’ 1997) Demasiado Corazón (‘Too Much Heart’ 1997) El Candidato (‘The
Candidate’ 1999) and La Vida en el Espejo (‘Life in the Mirror’ 1999) TV Azteca filled the
small screen with a vastly different version of Mexico than audiences had seen for the past
four decades. Indeed the titles of these texts reveal the conscious revision of the romantic
love story (‘Nothing Personal’, ‘North of the Heart’ and ‘Too Much Heart’) to include
more political issues (‘The Candidate’) and honest reflections of ‘Life in the Mirror’.
Yet far from abandoning the love story purportedly vital for the life of the telenovela, these
telenovelas incorporated love at the heart of their narratives, and sought to temper its
usually traditional romantic execution with ‘realistic’ elements. Serrano explained this
approach as ‘do[ing] love stories rosa, but with a bit more subtlety, through metaphors,
poetry [and] complexity’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January). Following this vision, TV
Azteca telenovelas gave an insight into different versions of love, perhaps most famously in
Mirada de Mujer (1997). For Serrano, ‘Mirada de Mujer was a love story but […] much
more evolved’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January) because it told the story of Maria Inés, a
middle aged woman who falls in love with a man sixteen years her junior, after her husband
of twenty seven years abandons her. Shifting the lens to find love stories other than those of
nubile young protagonists proved controversial, was evident with the successful lobbying
by Catholic groups to remove Tentaciones — the story of a priest who falls in love with his
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half sister — off the air. Within such commercially risky content, the possibility for a
revision of female characterisation and citizenship within the Mexican telenovela text
seemed inevitable. The following analysis provides a comprehensive exploration of this
prospect.
Finding Female Citizenship within the Telenovela de Ruptura’s
‘Untidy’ Nation
To begin, an analysis of the telenovela themes can provide an indication of the ‘type’ of
nation on display in the telenovela texts and helps to frame the level of ‘rupture’ within
race, class and gender representations of the narrative. Secondly, an analysis of race and
class dynamics within the narrative suggests the extent of ‘rupture’ from the traditional
representational schema. Finally, an analysis of the female characterisation must consider
its relationship to the telenovela form. Does this characterisation extend beyond that ‘one
dimensional’ (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 271) ‘crudely Manichaean’ characterisation often
found within traditional telenovelas, where characters serve ‘purely [as] signs’ (MartínBarbero 1995, 280)? Are they ‘complex, ambiguous and unpredictable’ (Acosta-Alzuru
2003a, 271) characters? As per the telenovela rosa formula, an observation of their
relationship to the tenets of ‘appropriate’ femininity assists such an analysis. Furthermore, a
focus on the female characters’ narrative trajectory helps to determine whether they are
‘liberated’ from the ‘weight of destiny’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 280) that traditionally closes
down such sites of transgression and ambiguity. An analysis of their ‘treatment’ within the
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melodramatic plot helps to determine the fate-as-citizenship that is granted to each of these
women by telenovela end.
Ultimately, the benefit of this analysis is threefold. It helps to gauge whether the ‘type’ of
nation within the telenovela de ruptura provides a space for a ‘rupture’ of female
characterisation and citizenship beyond that permitted within the telenovela rosa’s ‘tidy
nation’. It assists an inventory of those narrative tropes that facilitate the revision or
perpetuation of particular modes of female characterisation and citizenship found within the
traditional formula. Finally, the continued presence of these tropes clarifies why these
modes continue to exist within many different types of telenovela texts.
‘The Candidate’ for Love
From the opening credits, the type of nation configured within El Candidato looks
remarkably different from that ever seen within the traditional Mexican telenovela. Set to
the soaring urgency of an original score by the renowned Hollywood composer Hans
Zimmer,32 the telenovela’s apparently ‘rupturous’ themes are quickly conveyed as the
images that burst into frame signal a vast shift from the ‘vacuum’ of time and space
(Martín-Barbero 1995, Acosta-Alzuru 2003b) traditionally configured within the romantic
telenovela love story. Here, famous Mexico City landmarks are interspersed with images
evocative of politically turbulent times. As spectacular explosions — first a building then a
bus — cut to images of car crashes, flashing police sirens, seething traffic, trains,
32
Composer of The Da Vinci Code, Batman, The Last Samurai, Black Hawk Down, Thelma & Louise, Pearl
Harbour, Gladiator, Mission Impossible, The Thin Red Line, The Power of One and Driving Miss Daisy,
among many others.
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helicopters and airplanes, a sense of frenetic movement and urgency is evoked. Amongst
images of riot police, fire fighters and traffic cops- jumping out of helicopters or running
through the streets of the seething metropolis- the camera shifts to capture shots of the
people; of mass political rallies, of civilians in confrontation with riot police, of bus loads
of student protestors from the infamous UNAM strike of 1999. The people in these shots
are all ages, all sizes, all colours; from the indigenous woman selling her wares in the heart
of the city, to the student protestors, to the throngs of commuters on Mexico City’s busy
streets.
Only sporadically, superimposed over this seething mass of ‘untidy’ national images, are
transparent shots of the telenovela characters. Gazing longingly into the distance or directly
into the camera lens, it would seem that the ‘personal’ here is replaced by the political.
Indeed, within this homage to the ‘untidy’ national reality at play, the subject seems to shift
from that of the telenovela characters to the nation itself. No longer a ‘vacuum’ of time and
space (Martín-Barbero 1995, Acosta-Alzuru 2003b), the nation itself takes centre stage and
challenges its ‘tidy’ configuration. Correspondingly, the type of female citizenship possible
within such a ‘realistic’ version of the nation seems highly promising.
The nation does indeed figure as a key subject within El Candidato. Although its producers
reiterated throughout the publicity that this telenovela was a work of fiction and that ‘Any
resemblance to reality is purely coincidental’ (as the final credits remind the viewer) the
parallels between the nation configured within the telenovela’s narrative and that beyond its
borders appears remarkably similar. Set during the lead up to a presidential election in
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which Mexico attempts a democratic transfer of power after a long period of one-party rule,
the historical context on screen and off found unprecedented parallels. As scholar Arnoldo
Varona writes, El Candidato narrates ‘the melodrama, situated in Mexico’s present-day
context, […] [of] the course of a country’s attempts to arrive at the democratic election of
its next president’ (Varona 1999, n.p.).
Broadcast from August 1999, the telenovela’s popularity saw it extended from five to ten
months, to end just three weeks before the ‘real’ Mexican presidential elections were to
take place in July of 2000. Mirroring the ‘real-life’ events that arose in the lead up to these
historical elections, in which the 71 year rule of the Revolutionary Independence Party
(PRI) was defeated by the National Action Party (PAN), the telenovela included issues of
political corruption such as embezzlement, vote buying, political assassination and
consorting with powerful drug traffickers (Tegel 2000, 44). As one review stated, ‘In an
attempt to reflect the times, [TV Azteca] presents a telenovela whose story will go hand in
hand with what is happening in the Mexican electoral process’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.).
The depiction of a national reality within the fiction of El Candidato was conveyed in the
dialogue between the characters as well as within political speeches. This occurred most
profoundly in the presidential candidates’ final pre-election speeches, where they referred
to current domestic and foreign policy, in an open critique of seven decades of PRI
governance. As one of the fictional politicians explains;
We inherit a country that has for seventy years suffered deception, treachery and theft. Our
country is a geographical space that has since the conquest been continuously plundered.
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Presidency after presidency has left a legacy of corrupt officials made wealthy off the back
of a people plunged in misery and despair.
Furthermore, in an attempt to reflect the real life presidential election process, ‘scenes were
often shot just hours before transmission and incorporated into late-breaking news’ (Tegel
2000, 44) thereby providing a challenge to the often static insularity of the telenovela
community. Further to this was the ‘opening up’ of the narrative, as Mexico’s ‘first ever
interactive telenovela’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.). Through communication with the telenovela
writers and producers- whose email address flashed up in the final credits of each episode
— viewers could provide feedback and suggestions for future narratives. The production
team reportedly received as many as 300 emails per day (Tegel 2000, 44).
This dramatisation of ‘real life’ within the fictional world of El Candidato served to create
a sense of vitality, relevance and urgency not only to those events playing out onscreen, but
also within the nation beyond. With the goal to motivate an opening up of democracy so
that ‘this country finally has the government that it deserves and which leads us towards
progress’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.) Humberto Zurita — El Candidato’s lead actor and producer
— explained that the telenovela did not seek only to entertain, but also to challenge the
history of election fraud within Mexico. As Zurita disclosed; ‘In the novela we want to
challenge what has for seventy years of governance in México been the imposition of an
official candidate by the outgoing president, “the tap on the shoulder”, and posit that it is
possible to compete openly without fear of fraud or censorship’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.).
This attempt to ‘create a public political conscience’ arguably shaped the telenovela’s
narrative conclusion. According to Zurita, there were two possible endings on which the
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audience could vote; effectively emulating the very message of democracy that the
producers sought to instill in their viewers. As he said;
I will put up for election the telenovela’s ending, I have a tragic end and a happy,
commercial, traditional, orthodox ending. I wouldn’t like Mexico to have a tragic ending.
The public will be able to vote through email, and say which ending they would prefer
(Mendoza de Lira 2000, n.p.).
This democratic contract was ultimately configured within the narrative conclusion itself, as the last
episode terminated before the results were announced.
As Zurita explained; ‘We want people
to vote and we hope that El Candidato will encourage them. Of course, it’s up to them who
they vote for’ (Tegel 2000, 44). In one interview he confirmed the importance of this
didacticism;
I think that it is very opportune because right now all Mexicans should become familiar
with the political issues, get to know the candidates, find out what the parties are, and then
make the decision ourselves and know once and for all that the democracy that this
involves is about freedom, and that freedom is growth because you can be, express,
imagine, dream and make those dreams come true’ (Mendoza de Lira 2000, n.p.).
Such examples suggest the status of the nation-as-subject within this telenovela, as it
constitutes a fundamental character within the narrative. However, despite such first
impressions of the provocative opening credits, El Candidato is very much concerned with
narrating a traditional love story. It may be situated in the ‘realistic’ world of politics,
however the characters framed within the narrative are not those diverse citizens glimpsed
in the opening credits. They are those who constitute the core community within the
traditional telenovela narrative; whose privileged racial and class identities have little to do
with the reality beyond the borders of such an ‘ideal imagined’ community.
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Somewhat flouting the speeches throughout which espouse the symbolic defeat of the old
guard — represented by death of the corrupt politician Juventino — the exclusionary
configurations of race, class and gender citizenship are alive and well within El Candidato.
Key to this exclusionary representational schema is the production’s continued investment
in the traditional narrative tropes of telenovela fiction. Although the stories told have
‘touches of reality’, the telenovela is still ‘a series that has very much to do with fiction’
(Bárcenas 1999, n.p.). This is clear within much of the publicity surrounding El Candidato.
When promoting the telenovela, Zurita confirmed that ‘this telenovela has no claims to
didacticism; it only seeks to entertain, to provide fun, but with a profound, transcendental
theme’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.).
This emphasis on the fictional nature of the telenovela is particularly important for
understanding the perpetuation of an exclusionary female citizenship within El Candidato.
Clarifying the production’s commitment to maintaining the melodramatic structure and
content of the telenovela, Zurita explained that ‘it is very important that people understand
that […] we always wanted to maintain the melodramatic line, just adding facts and
incidents that arose at the time, without converting it into a political programme’ (Mendoza
de Lira 2000, n.p.).
Yet more than an artistic choice, this commitment to the melodrama was
borne of necessity, as ‘Whenever we have tried to thematically move away from
melodrama it is very hard to recoup the audience’ (Mendoza de Lira 2000, n.p.).
Emphasising the popularity of the romantic love story as the heart of the melodrama, Zurita
clarified; ‘The principal element is the love story that will live on throughout the entire
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novela’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.). In fact, much of the publicity suggests that the ‘realistic’
elements serve as context only for the main story as ‘The only thing that we are doing is
mix a current day theme with a beautiful love story’ (Morales Martínez 1999a, n.p.).
Following the exclusionary dynamics of the telenovela love story, the level of ‘rupture’ in
El Candidato seems somewhat limited.
A closer analysis of the opening credits reveals these limitations. The final image within
these credits is a ballot card with four boxes; three of these are the fictional political parties
represented within the narrative. The fourth is a red love heart. As the music reaches its
crescendo, a black cross is placed over the heart. Love, and the ‘tidy’ configurations of the
nation that it traditionally facilitates, have been elected. The final credits confirm this
familiar tale. Unlike the series of ‘graphic’ national images within the opening credits, only
the characters within the love triangle are portrayed here. Superimposed above a cloudy
night sky, the transparent figures of half sisters Beatriz and Marycarmen hover near the
figure of Ignacio, the telenovela galán. Ignacio and his discriminating love are indeed the
authorised ‘candidate’, as the final image of his penetrating gaze confirms. In fact,
Ignacio’s political status consolidates this galán’s relationship to the state even more
explicitly than in the telenovela rosa schema. The type of community and female
citizenship that his president as lover’s gaze permits follows this tradition.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 13- M arycarment, Ignacio
& Beatriz
Figure 14- Ignacio’s penetrating gaze
Despite the novela’s ‘revolutionary’ role in promoting democracy in the lead up to the 2000
presidential elections, El Candidato performs the same policing of femininity that can be
found within its traditional counterpart. By telenovela end, Beatriz has occupied the role of
wife and mother; as Ignacio’s chosen companion and the guardian of his children. In
contrast, Marycarmen is dead. After her rejection by Ignacio, Marycarmen’s demise
involves a transgression of the tenets of appropriate femininity with an extramarital affair,
abandonment of her children, alcoholism, drug addiction and a drug overdose. Only after
such a spectacular fall from grace is Marycarmen finally shot dead. It would appear that
‘the political’ is still very much ‘personal’ within El Candidato and its perpetuation of the
telenovela rosa formula for female characterisation and citizenship has remarkable parallels
with Rosalinda. A tabulation of Marycarmen and Beatriz’s characterisation and trajectory
reveals this congruence.
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Just like Fedra, Marycarmen is the unloved woman and this forms the core of her
‘inappropriate femininity’. Principally, her unnatural relationship with love, marriage and
maternity begins early in the narrative when she marries Ignacio, not for love, but for
ambition. Indeed, this fraudulent relationship with love sees her acceptance of a marriage of
convenience, whereby Ignacio benefits from the political connections that her family name
provides and Marycarmen strategically secures a future of wealth and recognition with the
future president of the nation. Yet further to this antagonistic preference for money and
power over love, Marycarmen is aware that Ignacio and her half-sister Beatriz are in love.
This makes for a disastrous equation, as unable to ever win her husband’s love,
Marycarmen’s pride is wounded and correspondingly, her ambition and activity are further
ignited. Exacerbating her inherent corruption of the institutions of marriage and maternity,
Marycarmen’s preference for the public domain follows.
In the vein of traditional telenovela antagonists, it is Marycarmen’s ambition that prevents
her satisfaction with the role of wife and mother. This is signaled throughout the narrative.
Numerous characters — all of them members of her family — comment on her selfishness,
ignorance, superficiality, vanity and ambition. As Ignacio accuses; ‘you can keep appearing
in the papers, at your charity benefits, even though there is nothing altruistic about you.’ He
is disgusted by this feigned altruism, scoffing that ‘you feel so important rubbing elbows
with the first lady and the ministers’ wives’. Later he scoffs at her self-importance taunting
‘What type of problems do you have?! Deciding between wearing the green or the blue
dress, or if you’ll use the car or the van? They’re problems you invent! That you put in your
little head to keep it busy.’
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This torments Beatriz who laments ‘it makes me so sad, honestly, it makes me so sad that
Ignacio, deserving all the love in the world, only has your ambition, cynicism, and your
coldness Marycarmen’. Even her grandmother reprimands Marycarmen for her inability to
perform her roles as wife and mother well lamenting ‘Ah Marycarmen, don’t ask girl, give!
[…] Share his doubts, make him feel that you’re interested in what he does, what he says,
and what he thinks. And after […] you transform into a seductive lover, full of sexual
innovation.’ Yet when Marycarmen continues to disappoint she is warned that ‘You should
be more concerned about him. Look after your relationship and don’t lose time on your
brunches and absurd social occasions.’
Yet despite attempts to remedy the situation by quelling her aggression and resentment
towards her husband,33 Marycarmen’s pride and self-righteousness prevent self-abnegation.
Seeking more from life she explains ‘Honestly, I’d like to feel that I am still attractive, that
I still catch people’s eye, that they recognise what I do. I want them to say “that woman is
worthwhile” and not just because I am the daughter of Don Juventino or the wife of the
politician Santoscoy.’ Yet as per the telenovela’s narration of phallic supremacy, her desire
to do more with her life is ill-executed and she relies upon her marriage to quench this thirst
for recognition; ‘If my marriage ends, then everything that matters to me disappears; my
status, my social standing, and of course, my family, my children’.
This unnatural relationship with love, marriage and maternity translates into aggression and
arrogance. Not complicit with male authority, Marycarmen’s ‘inappropriate’ aggression
33
As she begs; ‘Give me the chance to fix my mistakes. I have been selfish, moody, stubborn, but because I
love you I am prepared to change. Don’t deny me the opportunity. Can you forgive me?’
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towards her husband attempts his emasculation. Despite Ignacio’s attempts to salvage their
marriage for the sake of his political career, as well as their children, Marycarmen is
irreconcilably unlovable. Thus in addition to her inappropriate execution of the roles of
wife and mother, it is Marycarmen’s status as the ‘unloved woman’ that seals her fate.
Ignacio simply cannot love Marycarmen, as he reminds her throughout the narrative; ‘I
don’t owe you a thing, except for my unhappiness. […] If I’m still here it’s because of our
children. […] Our marriage is the worst mistake that we have ever made’. Yet rather than
fight for her love, she fights for her social status, further confirming her ‘inappropriateness’
as a ‘candidate’ for the galán’s love; ‘Ignacio is what least matters to me […] What I am
not prepared to lose are my privileges from this marriage. My position as a respectable
wife.’
As such, Marycarmen’s ambition and pride see her pursuit of rivalry with Beatriz, in order
to secure social status through marriage to Ignacio. Thus as soon as Beatriz returns home
from abroad, Marycarmen defends her territory as Ignacio’s wife; ‘Listen to me closely you
cunning brat. […] I am not going to let you steal him from me, you got it? […] Ignacio
owes me a lot and it’s going to be me who enjoys his success not you.’ Blaming Beatriz for
her marriage problems she becomes increasingly incensed when the old flame between her
sister and husband reignites. Embodying the despised ‘loca’ (‘crazy woman’) so hated
within the Mexican telenovela schema, she becomes increasingly irrational, as Ignacio
rails; ‘First you shout, then you offend, you insult, and then you start crying […] the few
moments that we have together you ruin.’ Ultimately, it is the loca’s jealousy that leads to
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her demise; tormented by Ignacio’s rejection, Marycarmen’s twisted values lurch from
promiscuity to addiction before death by stray bullet.
Here Marycarmen’s threat to the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the
‘tidy nation’ (particularly significant considering her marriage to the president of Mexico)
is removed. She is not granted permanent residence within this ‘ideal imagined’
community, the integrity and reform of which is championed throughout the narrative. Her
citizenship is denied.
Beatriz’s replacement of this ‘wicked’ half-sister follows. In direct opposition to
Marycarmen’s demise, Beatriz is rewarded for her ‘appropriate femininity’. Her ability to
fulfill the role is signaled from telenovela beginning, when despite her love for Ignacio, she
has no intentions of breaking up his family, as she tells him; ‘I am not going to hurt
anybody […] not your political future nor Marycarmen nor my niece and nephew’. Beatriz
is a spirited protagonist and like her half-sister, she is proud. Yet her positive relationship
with love and the institutions of marriage and motherhood means that this pride is not a
corrupting force, as she tells Marycarmen; ‘I want you to remember that besides the great
care that I feel for Ignacio, I am not a “second best” woman, you got me?’ This reticence to
rival Marycarmen for the galán’s love only serves to confirm her status as the ideal
‘candidate’ and like her selfless counterpart Rosalinda, it is only when the antagonist dies
that Beatriz takes up her rightful role as wife and mother of the galán and his progeny.
Thus when Beatriz ends the telenovela in the arms of ‘the candidate’, her status as the
chosen women is entirely warranted.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 15- Clarifying the narrative drive
Figure 16- Embracing in the surf
The Look of a Woman… an Alternative Vision?
The alternate vision proposed in the title Mirada de Mujer, suggests a move away from the
telenovela’s traditionally phallocentric framing of female characters. Translated as the
‘look’, ‘perspective’ or ‘gaze’ of a woman, the new subjectivity and agency promoted
within this title suggests the possibility of revising the traditional male perspective that is
framed even within the telenovela de ruptura, El Candidato. In sharp contrast to El
Candidato’s credits, the female gaze that dominates the opening credits of Mirada de Mujer
suggests a break from such policing by the penetrating male gaze and the exclusionary
female citizenship that this perspective entails.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 17 – Maria Inés’ penetrating gaze
Not unusually, Mirada de Mujer tells the story of an upper middle class family living in
Mexico City. Yet at the heart of this story are not the romantic misadventures of nubile
young lovers, but the failed relationship of a middle aged couple Maria Inés and Ignacio.
Married for twenty-seven years, Ignacio’s infidelity with his thirty-something colleague
Daniela is a slap in the face for Maria Inés, who has given her life to her husband and
family. Yet, Maria Inés’ role as a ‘madre sufrida’ who forgives her husband’s infidelity is
short lived. Introduced to a journalist sixteen years her junior, Maria Inés falls in love, and
the traditional trajectory for a female character in her predicament begins to unravel. Her
refusal to reconcile with her husband despite his repentance and desire to reunite the family
further flouts the traditional roles afforded women within the Mexican telenovela, through
its emphasis placed on family unity at all costs.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 18 – Ignacio, Maria Inés & Alejandro
Figure 19- Maria Inés & Alejandro
In this telenovela, a different sense of female identity is developed and encouraged. To
begin, Maria Inés’ love affair with a younger man proposes a break from the ageism found
within traditional configurations of the telenovela protagonist. Here, the camera lens shifts,
as rather than tell her more sexually viable daughters’ stories, Maria Inés, a ‘matronly’ fifty
year old housewife, lives the passion traditionally denied her. This sexualisation of the
mother figure proved confronting for many viewers. Álvaro Cueva explained the reaction
of the conservative media, when the newspaper El Norte launched a campaign against what
they deemed this ‘scandalous’ telenovela. To mitigate this negative press, ‘the actors and
the producer had to go to […] a ‘round table’ in the editorial office of El Norte, to make the
publication’s reporters and editors understand what [the telenovela] was all about; that it
wasn’t an offense to housewives, nor an invitation for them to go out and search for lovers’
(2007, pers. comm., 12 January).
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However, despite attempts to have the series banned, Mirada de Mujer continued to break
down taboos. Epigmenio Ibarra explains one of the most groundbreaking moments of the
novela as ‘the first abortion that has been done on Mexican television’ (Covarrubias and
Uribe 2000, 132). The treatment of issues such as AIDS, breast cancer, rape and anorexia
similarly pushed the boundaries of traditional telenovela fare. This newfound ‘reality’ was
coupled with the ‘concept of the hidden camera’ whereby ‘one scene could start in the elder
daughter’s bedroom, pass to the other bedroom, then to the other, go into the passageway
and then end up on the staircase’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 122). Designed to ‘make
the spectator feel present: within the conflicts that were produced in the intimacy of the
family’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 122) this cinematography worked towards rupturing
the intimate space of the domestic sphere.
Arguably more confronting than the political corruption that flashed across the screen with
Nada Personal the year before, the once safe ‘bosom’ of the Mexican home became a
hotbed of gender politics. So new was this approach, that academics hailed the new spaces
opening up for female subjectivity onscreen and off. Here female audiences would be
encouraged to question ‘their role as wives and mothers (of their subordinate position in
relation to their husband and the possibility of existing beyond their personal lives) as a
means of conceiving alternate ways of living their lives’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 1998, 34).
First airing to great success in 1997 on TV Azteca’s channel 13 and most recently
broadcast in the US in 2006, Mirada de Mujer appeared to provide a financially viable yet
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socially progressive update of the traditional formula. Yet as with El Candidato, a closer
examination of the ‘type’ of nation and female citizenship ultimately configured within
Mirada de Mujer reveals the inherent limitations of this ‘resistance’.
Re-viewing Race and Class within the National Space
Mirada de Mujer’s setting in an upper middle class family in Mexico City prevents the
story from providing an alternate space to those already privileged as the site of narrative
importance within the traditional telenovela schema. Thus whilst race and class alternatives
do exist, they remain peripheral, often superfluous to the narrative thrust, never threatening
to destabilize the privilege experienced by the San Millan family.
Race issues are foregrounded in only one narrative thread when Maria Inés’ son, marries
Ivanna; a ‘negra’ (‘black girl’). This union is problematised by various members of the
family, disgusted by the inclusion of a ‘negra’ in the family tree. Yet whilst this racism is
weighted by the portrayal of Ivanna’s family as similarly unhappy with the union, the
privileged position experienced by the majority of the light skinned telenovela characters
remains unchallenged. Here the inclusion of exclusively light skinned actors within the
principal cast perpetuates the normalization of whiteness.
Within Mirada de Mujer, the darker skinned characters look on. As maids, waiters,
removalists, extras, or the general public lingering in the background, these figures are
superfluous to the main story. The darker skinned maid working for the San Millan story
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has a name, Elvia, and a speaking part, yet her presence is only functional. As the maid, she
makes life easier for the members of the family yet remains peripheral to the story. Her
body is in a constant state of tension, and her own ‘mirada’, often downcast or appealing
for instructions during the various family crises, indicate her role. Elvia’s perspective is
never included within the narrative, as reflected in her framing within the scenes, which
often show the back of her head, or her blurred figure in the background. She exists on the
periphery, beyond the borders of the particular nation privileged within this narrative. How
this equates to a ‘rupture’ of the exclusionary representational schema does not follow.
The class representations within Mirada de Mujer also problematise the notion of ‘rupture’.
The San Millan family is a wealthy family, with a mansion in Mexico City, a country house
and ranch, apartments, cars for each member of the family and trips overseas. Ignacio is a
successful lawyer and Marie Inés does not work. Neither do her friends Paulina and
Rosario.
Yet rather than question the class dynamics that this entails, the importance of wealth is
reaffirmed throughout the narrative as those key events that compromise the stability of this
economic status are resolved by telenovela end. When Ignacio threatens to withdraw
financial support of his family during the divorce from Maria Inés, she finds the possibility
of job-hunting beyond comprehension. She has no skills, no experience and middle age to
contend with. Yet rather than explore the reality that would destroy the luxurious world
within which she resides, Mirada de Mujer resolves this potential class conflict through
Ignacio’s continued support.
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Consequently, the only class conflict within the foreground surrounds Alejandro Salas;
Maria Inés’ younger lover. Alex is considered a poor bachelor with little financial security
to offer Maria Inés. Yet whilst this causes him much anguish, Alex’s finances are not so
limited as to communicate those class struggles prevalent beyond this upper echelon. He is
a well-educated and articulate freelance journalist. Throughout the telenovela his earning
power increases as he is offered work as a magazine editor and wins a prestigious
international book prize. Whilst he may not reach the heights of wealth enjoyed by the San
Millan family, he is by no means representative of the poverty of the working class
majority in the Mexican national space. As a young male professional he has the world at
his feet.
Consequently Mirada de Mujer ‘ruptures’ neither the race nor class parameters of
traditional narrative schema. Indeed, this telenovela de ruptura represents a ‘reality’ that
arguably has very little to do with many of its viewers. Subsequently Argos’ desire to
represent ‘what is happening in the nation’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 121) seems at
odds with Mirada de Mujer’s particular community.
Scholars at the University of Colima discussed this contradiction in a 1998 interview with
Epigmenio Ibarra asking ‘Why frame in particular the life of the middle class, upper middle
class, in a telenovela like Mirada de Mujer […] [as] the majority of those that watch ‘telly’
and have a significant telenovela culture don’t represent that social stratum [?]’
(Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 123) Ibarra defended Argos’ work by explaining the
difficulty of representing a wider social demographic beyond that framed within the
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traditional telenovela schema. Arguing that ‘in reality the worker doesn’t have time to go
around thinking if he’s going to divorce or not, because he is worried about his stomach’ he
admitted that ‘We are confronting the task of providing the most transparent vision on air
that requires- among other things-, universality in the sense that all of the classes are there,
but it is a monumental task’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 123-4) Thus whilst Ibarra
confirms the importance of a multivalent social reality to Argos’ mission, their ongoing
discrepancies remain evident.
Here, the ‘social and cultural issues taken from Latin American reality’ (Acosta-Alzuru
2003a, 271) that are apparently ‘typical’ of the de ruptura genre appear somewhat limited
in their scope. Despite the notion that telenovelas de ruptura ‘rupture’ the anonymity of
telenovelas rosa by contrasting to the ‘vacuum’ of time and space (Martín-Barbero 1995,
Acosta-Alzuru 2003b) found within the traditional formula, Mirada de Mujer provides no
such narrative. Originally produced as a fifty-two episode mini-series in Venezuela, Señora
Isabel was brought to Mexico and adapted for national audiences. Yet apart from brief
geographical mentions, the adaptation does not call the nation into being. Rather a
‘specifically national reality’ (Martin-Barbero 1995, 279) remains absent and like many
‘delocalised’ telenovelas formatted within the transnational television industry, Mirada de
Mujer could translate to a multitude of different national contexts.
Similarly, the potential to revise traditional ideologies from within the bosom of the family
— the very apparatus traditionally used to perpetuate patriarchal versions of the ‘tidy
nation’ within the traditional telenovela formula — fails to transpire. Here the ‘look within’
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endorsed by Mirada de Mujer reinforces the insular dramatization of individual dilemmas
as the theme of romance takes precedence. In this way, the old adage ‘love is blind’ rings
true, as the importance of romance to the narrative creates a figurative blind spot,
seemingly obliterating the other themes competing for airtime. As in the traditional
telenovela formula, the love story determines the amount of ‘rupture’ to female
characterisation and citizenship.
The following sections carefully consider the dynamics of this narrative trope. Indeed, an
analysis of female characterisation as per the telenovela rosa formula effectively
determines if these female characters “of rupture” are ‘liberated from the weight of destiny’
(Martín-Barbero 1995, 280) by telenovela end. Here, the focus on each character’s
‘destiny’ is necessary to gauge whether the shift from the male to the female ‘perspective’
avoids the policing of ‘appropriate femininity’ within this telenovela de ruptura.
Ultimately, this focus on narrative conclusion explores whether a reworking of female
representation/citizenship within the telenovela community is even possible, as
melodramatic tropes create both conflict through complicating binary opposites, then
resolution through closing those sites of female transgression. This consideration of an
enduring female ‘look’ — beyond the rolling credits — determines whether the telenovela
de ruptura creates mere surface changes or allows a deeper restructuring of those
traditional narrative tropes founded on female mythification.
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First Impressions; Privileging the Female Perspective
The ‘look’ privileged within Mirada de Mujer is cleverly presented. Rather than potentially
ostracise audiences by suddenly presenting a different perspective and set of values than
those traditionally portrayed within the Mexican telenovela, Mirada de Mujer gradually
leads the audience to the new viewpoint. This journey effectively follows the characters’
steps towards ‘enlightenment’ whereby their understanding of the world is challenged and
they are forced to extend their boundaries of tolerance. The telenovela begins with the
normalised ‘male’ perspective, epitomised by the patriarch Ignacio San Millan, limiting the
lives of many of the characters within the narrative. As these characters become
increasingly frustrated with this schema, they fight against its logic. Throughout the
narrative, some characters serve as activists for the ‘new order.’ Still others actively resist
it, trying to protect the moral stability they fear is threatened by this new vision. Yet in line
with the narrative thrust advocating change beyond the strictures of patriarchal rule, it
would seem that this order is eventually replaced with the newfound vision of the ‘mirada
de mujer’.
Maria Inés’ journey throughout the telenovela epitomises the shift from a male to female
perspective. As the female protagonist, her perspective is privileged such that, it is her
‘look’ that forms the name of the telenovela. Correspondingly, Maria Inés is the first
character to adopt the new female perspective. Her discovery of her husband’s infidelity
subverts her world; a world within which male dominance is normalised, and which she, as
wife and mother, helped to perpetuate. The telenovela’s first scene illustrates this order. As
Maria Inés dresses for an evening in which she will accompany her husband to a work
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dinner, she listens supportively to his complaints about the workers’ strikes, and keeps
family politics at bay. Acting as mediator between father and son, she is the peacekeeper;
moving through the mansion’s rooms and passageways, she is smiling, democratic,
unobtrusive, expressing concern. She exudes the traditional values of wife and mother. She
is good.
Yet the traditional telenovela formula is soon compromised. At the end of this scene, desire
stirs. Maria Inés may be a middle-aged wife and mother but she is also a woman; she seeks
validation from her husband’s gaze and when he fails to take interest in her physically, her
untapped sexuality is revealed. Here Maria Inés begins to diverge from her traditional
configuration. Whilst in Rosalinda, the viewer is encouraged to read the sexuality of the
middle-aged Valeria as pathological, here it is normalised through Maria Inés’ role as
protagonist. Thus rather than advocating her rejection by the viewer, Maria Inés’ desire is
presented as an acceptable characteristic of this unique heroine.
This apparent privileging of a new order continues through Maria Inés’ narrative trajectory.
Maria Inés is initially deterred by the negative reactions to her desire for independence. She
continues to live with Ignacio and does not openly challenge his conclusion that they are
too old to divorce. Even after she becomes aware that the affair has lasted for two years,
she waits for him to make a decision regarding her future. Yet this inaction is not privileged
within the narrative as Maria Inés’ unhappiness motivates a desire for her, as telenovela
protagonist, to awaken to the new perspective. Thus rather than condemn Maria Inés’
activity when she final awakens to the injustice of her situation, the narrative demonises
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those who defend this misogynist order. This includes her daughters’ and mother’s
assertion that Ignacio’s cheating was actually Maria Inés’ fault.
This is emphasised when Maria Inés meets Alejandro Salas, whose qualitative gaze is
vastly different to the traditional gaze that frames her as Ignacio’s wife and the mother of
his three children. No longer restrained by her husband’s agenda, she adopts a newfound
agency, and her corresponding sexual and emotional empowerment helps her to confront
those threatened by this new perspective. Increasingly affronted by her sexuality, the
characters ridicule Maria Inés’ potential to be sexually attractive. Here, Maria Elena and
Ignacio reason that Alejandro can only be interested in her money, and warn him off
through attempted bribery. Even her best friend Paulina confirms the exceptional nature of
her relationship with a younger man, repeating throughout the novela that Alejandro is an
‘extraterrestrial’; able to love Maria Inés despite temptation by younger more viable
candidates for his affections.
Later when the family realises the strength of Alejandro’s affections, they attempt to
sabotage their ability to be together; first by getting Alejandro fired, then by cutting off
Maria Inés’ financial support so that she is forced to reunite with Ignacio. Yet most
significantly, Maria Inés’ values are questioned, as the strength of her union with Alejandro
threatens the order that she is charged with maintaining. Her sexuality, once the subject of
ridicule, is now portrayed as lustful, grotesque and irresponsible, for a woman of her age
and social status. She is charged with responsibility for her (adult) children’s personal
problems, due to her ‘transgression’ of ‘appropriate’ motherhood. Unlike Ignacio’s
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immunity to blame for his infidelities, Maria Inés is liable for Monica’s neurosis and
anorexia, for Andrea’s pregnancy out of wedlock and for Andres’ heavy drinking and affair
with Paulina.
However, the patriarchal order does not stand. Maria Inés’ role as telenovela protagonist
maintains her integrity and ostracises those characters trying to limit her independence.
This transgressive order is consolidated as the narrative continues and each of these ‘bad’
characters submits to the logic of the ‘female’ perspective. Integral to this transition process
is Ignacio’s admission of guilt. When he finally takes responsibility for his actions, likening
his power to Mexico’s corruption, it seems that the male order is officially deposed. This
allegory between family politics and the deposed rule of the father calls for a new order
within the national space. Later, Ignacio’s handing over of the divorce papers signifies his
entrusting the reigns of this ‘nation’ to Maria Inés. Symbolising the ‘rupture’ of the ‘tidy’
national space, it would seem that a more inclusive female citizenship would follow this
transfer of power.
Just as Maria Inés transgresses the female dichotomy so too do the other female characters.
Here, the ‘good’ characters Andrea, Consuelo and Paulina exhibit ‘bad’ characteristics like
ambition, divorce and promiscuity. Likewise, despite the injustices that they commit
against Maria Inés, those who most vehemently oppose her happiness are also
contextualised. Mamalena and Monica are depicted empathetically as psychologically
complex yet understandable women who only seek to secure their family’s unity.
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Daniela’s complex characterisation epitomises this schema. Everything about Daniela
depicts her as a ‘scarlet woman.’ She is first seen in the opening credits lying in bed kissing
Ignacio. Lithe, young and beautiful, she whispers to the protagonist’s husband ‘leave her’.
Further to this rivalry, her position as an intelligent career woman, threatens Maria Inés’
domesticity. In contrast to the protagonist, Daniela lives in the public sphere as a lawyer in
a successful firm and her home is clean and empty. As she stands in her kitchen with her
best friend Marcela, the bench tops and appliances gleam with lack of use. There are no
children, maids or relatives to invade this space. She is sleek and sexy; a lover.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 20 — Daniela in bed with Ignacio.
Yet whilst within a traditional telenovela schema, Daniela would be depicted as the
antagonistic ‘whore’, Mirada de Mujer’s female perspective appears to afford her a
different role. Despite her credentials as the female antagonist, Daniela is portrayed as a
reasonable and kind person. The gentle music that often punctuates her scenes works
towards facilitating this shift for viewers, accustomed to the antagonism of the ‘other
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woman’. Further complicating this characterisation is Daniela’s relationship with maternity.
She desperately wants a child yet her active pursuit of maternity comes from a genuine
desire rather than a tactic to ensnare her man. Indeed after Ignacio abandons her, Daniela
rejects his decision to return as the father of her child. Not only does this undermine the
traditional formula’s investment in heteronormative configurations the family unit, it also
shows her personal integrity.
It is this desire for true love that complicates Daniela’s role as the ‘other’ woman. Indeed,
she may be the ‘unloved’ woman but unlike the antagonist, her status does not translate into
an active pursuit to access this love. Not once does she become the irrational, despised
‘loca’ that threatens the male order in her desperate attempts to appropriate this site of
empowerment. Indeed, whilst Daniela has a fraught relationship with love, she knows that
she deserves it.
Following this complex characterisation, Daniela does not pursue a rivalry with Maria Inés
for Ignacio’s love. In fact, she defends Maria Inés from his criticism. Here the lines
between protagonist and antagonist become blurred. As each woman is characterised
beyond the strict parameters of the female dichotomy, it would seem that her transgression
is encouraged rather than problematised. This investment in the interstitial existence of its
female characters should equate to an inclusive female citizenship upon telenovela
conclusion. However, when the ‘female’ perspective is given a closer look these first
impressions do not last.
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…Towards an ‘Ideal Imagined’ Conclusion
Despite Mirada de Mujer’s complex female characterisation, none of these women is
‘liberated from the weight of destiny’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 9) that typically determines
the conclusion of their narrative trajectory. Whilst the female characters are not demonised
or reified from telenovela beginning to end, certain women remain within the telenovela
community, whilst others are removed. The extent of this ‘exile’ is quite remarkable, as
each of these ‘problematic’ women either state that they must leave the community, are
physically harmed, or are killed. Thus, the same formulaic parameters that police
femininity within the traditional telenovela can be applied to each of these women.
Monica’s rape and Mamalena’s return to the United States illustrate this logic but it is
Daniela’s, Paulina’s and Marcela’s fate that exemplify its patriarchal hegemony. Daniela
decides that she must leave Mexico City, where her career, family and friends are based,
because of the harsh judgments levelled at her. As she tells Ignacio ‘I’m going to leave
Mexico City […] It wasn’t easy making the decision, but I have had to confront very
uncomfortable situations; from the pain that I have caused my family, to, well, the very
cruel comments in the office.’ Run out of town, Daniela’s exile can be read as a
repercussion of her transgression of ‘appropriate’ femininity. Thus whilst she is not judged
by the female ‘mirada’, the traditional male perspective prevails. As a single mother, who
has rejected the salvation offered her through marriage, she has no place within this ideal
community.
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Paulina’s death clearly indicates the extent of this ‘policing’ of ‘appropriate femininity.
Despite gaining integrity through her friendship with the telenovela protagonist, Paulina’s
sexual ‘promiscuity’ determines her fate. As a sexually active blond divorcee in her forties,
Paulina operates as a free agent. This independent activity means that she does not spend
time with her daughters, who remain absent onscreen. Maria Inés is often shocked by
Paulina’s sexual antics and vanity, but still loves her dearly and thus humanises her antics.
Further to this concession by the female gaze, Paulina’s passivity tempers her transgression,
as despite her ‘promiscuity’, she is a weak person who cannot say ‘no’ to the oftenaggressive men in her life.
However, despite support by the female protagonist and a desire to change her abusive
relationships with men, Paulina’s demise follows. Repeatedly beaten and later raped by her
lover, she is punished throughout the narrative then ultimately denied citizenship when
diagnosed with HIV near telenovela end. Her subsequently speedy death ensues. The fact
that she always used protection and only ever had unprotected sex when her violent
boyfriend Marcos raped her seems a moot point. This is not enough to save her.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figures 21&22- The correlation between Paulina’s sexuality and her death is inevitable
Paulina’s disease physically articulates her ‘inappropriate’ femininity within this
community, yet the intimate relationship between Paulina’s transgressed sexuality and her
maternity is nowhere more apparent than when she is deemed incapable of motherhood,
and her children are removed from her care. As her husband comes to take them away, she
begs him to believe that she was a good mother, to no avail. Paulina’s humanity is taken
away with her children and she becomes a monster, reminiscent of La Llorona, the horrific
‘crying woman’ whose act of infanticide has been immortalised in urban mythology as the
aberrant whore mother. As Paulina screams in grief at the end of this scene, her hands claw
at her hair and her mouth gapes open, horrified by this image of herself. Like a scene from
a classic horror film, the camera quickly pans out long and low, and stops abruptly, hiding
behind a chair. Framed as abject female aberration, Paulina is a monstrous threat which
must be removed from this ideal community.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figures 23-29 -- Paulina is framed as abject ‘other’, as she loses her children for being a bad mother
Throughout their interviews, telenovela academics and professionals, including those Argos
executives involved in the project, described the negative reaction by many of Mirada de
Mujer’s viewers to Paulina’s death. They also articulated their own discomfort with
Paulina’s fate. Marcela Mejía was a producer on the telenovela and she explained how
The whole cast, and all the women crew, began to protest when they read the scripts. They
said ‘No, because it is a punishment, killing her is a punishment. A woman freely
exercising her sexuality will be killed by the author’. [...] So then I got all of the protestors
together at a dinner with the author – Bernard Romero – who was the only man at the
dinner. And then he started talking [...] 'I'm not punishing Paulina because she exercises her
sexuality. I'm punishing her because she is a woman who thinks that sex is love. A woman
who has failed to look for love but who has sex thinking that it is love. That is her
punishment’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Antonio Serrano was also a producer on the telenovela and he critiqued the writer’s
perspective, arguing that the wrong woman died within this telenovela;
If you want to talk about AIDS, then you’re better off giving it to the housewife who lives
locked up with her husband; married, conservative, thinking and doing nothing and whose
husband is the one who cheats on her and sleeps with women and men and whoever he
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wants […] it is the husband that infects her. That is more realistic and I think it has many
more implications than the other version which is once again the puritanical take that says
“don’t be free because you will […] end up in the ground” (2007, pers. comm., 23
January).
Bustos Romero shared this reading and argued that Paulina’s death highlighted the
maintenance of the patriarchal order within this novela. Those interviewed who rejected
this reading of Mirada de Mujer were most insightful to the pervasiveness of the traditional
schema. Defending the moral logic behind Paulina’s death, Ibarra emphasised that ‘Paulina
was the villain’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 132). Arguing that the ‘complexity’ of her
character was an unplanned mistake, he asserted that ‘the writer was always against
Margarita Gralia’s interpretation of the role, because she did it in such a nice way: she
created a Paulina that was very charismatic and beautiful’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000,
132).
These comments are particularly revelatory, as it seems that Paulina was never meant to be
more than a whore. She was written and produced to be unwanted, unloved and
expendable. The fact that she was, according to Ibarra, miscast and misinterpreted, by the
actress as well as the audience, suggests that they were wrong to think they were watching
something that ‘ruptured’ the conventional execution of female citizenship within the
Mexican telenovela. As Ibarra explained;
I was very surprised about the reaction from all of the liberal sectors of the nation, because
if there was a slave-like, retrograde, reactionary, anti liberation of the woman character in
that novela it was Paulina. […] Paulina got involved with a crazed macho that beat her, she
stayed with him despite his beating her, he raped her, she didn’t use a condom […] To the
feminists that came out in defense of Paulina I told them “the first that should crucify her
are you” and it was the complete opposite (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 131).
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This ‘justified’ punishing of the sexually active woman and the removal of her threat to the
‘ideal imagined’ community, suggest that this ‘telenovela de ruptura’ invests in the same
narrative dynamics that facilitate the construction of a ‘tidy nation’ as ‘ideal imagined’
community within the traditional Mexican telenovela text. However, this is not
unprecedented as both El Candidato and Mirada de Mujer simply reflect a flaw in the de
ruptura formula.
Upon defining the telenovela de ruptura genre, Jesus Martín-Barbero inadvertently
highlights this flaw as not breaking with the melodramatic model entirely (Martín-Barbero
1995, 279). Here loyalty to the melodramatic model, which in the Mexican telenovela
assures the drive for a ‘tidy’ narrative resolution, compromises the potential that this
revisionist genre has for a more complex female characterisation. This is evident in both
telenovelas surveyed here. As the melodramatic drive for conflict resolution lends itself to
the reward or punishment of certain types of women by telenovela end, it contradicts
attempts at creating an inclusive female citizenship within the telenovela community. Thus,
whilst the female perspective within Mirada de Mujer would seem to promote transgressive
spaces within the narrative, this telenovela de ruptura follows formulaic tradition by
ultimately closing down sites of resistance.
Here, Mirada de Mujer’s investment in ‘Manichaean melodramatic’ closure signals the
ultimate triumph of the male gaze-as telenovela galán. However, unlike the traditional
formula, the power of this gaze is initially hidden. From the outset, Alejandro’s position as
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‘extraterrestrial’ appears to promote the alternative female perspective yet this status
ultimately serves his endorsement of those same parameters of exclusionary female
citizenship by telenovela conclusion. This sensitive hero is uniquely placed, as the bridge
between a male and female perspective. Yet coupled with Alejandro’s powerful status as
telenovela galán, he effectively colonises the female space, serving as a point of entrance
for women to gain access to the female ‘mirada.’ This creates a false economy, as the
women continue to depend on patriarchal authority for their sense of self.
First evident with Maria Inés’ validation through Alejandro’s gaze, the protagonist suffers
tremendously when his gaze is averted. She tells Alejandro that she cannot live without him
and that she has lost any sense of self outside of their relationship. Alejandro similarly
provides access to the female perspective for Monica and Marcela. He informs Monica of
her options regarding her unborn child. He also teaches Marcela how to be a ‘real’ woman,
leading her to a more ‘appropriate’ model of femininity. Inevitably, Alejandro’s promotion
of the female perspective is not always inclusive of difference. His treatment of Paulina
confirms this limited view.
It is through Alejandro’s gaze that Paulina’s demise is played out as a logical result of her
promiscuity. Indeed, Alejandro’s indictment of her behaviour conveys this notion that she
was “asking for it”. At first, he jokes about her beating by Marcos and implies that her life
is a ridiculous disaster. Upon her rape, he articulates this more clearly, asserting that whilst
she did not ‘deserve it’, she was effectively ‘asking for it’ because she didn’t stop the
violence the first time. When they are later reporting the crime, he jokes with the male clerk
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that Paulina thinks that a guy shows he is in love if he beats her. Maria Inés briefly chides
the inappropriateness of this commentary but Alex’s authority as the telenovela galán
endorses this reading of Paulina within the narrative.
Ultimately though, it is Marcela’s characterisation and narrative trajectory that best
illustrate this novela’s recourse to the traditional demarcations of ‘appropriate’ and
‘inappropriate’ femininity, as directed by the galán’s gaze. Here, the delayed rivalry
between Maria Inés and Marcela for Alejandro’s love corrects the apparent absence of the
female dichotomy at the beginning of the telenovela. For whilst many women within
Mirada de Mujer can act as antagonistic obstacles to Maria Inés’ happiness, they remain
peripheral to the central female rivalry at the heart of the narrative schema. Similarly, their
‘revision’ remains somewhat peripheral to the narrative dynamics. An understanding of
Marcela as ‘other’ to the real love story played out within this telenovela, between
Alejandro and Maria Inés, clarifies the perpetuation of the patriarchal schema within the
narrative.
Marcela is introduced as a key character part way through the telenovela narrative. At first
she is just Daniela’s friend; another young, independent working-woman who actively
vocalises her disregard for patriarchy by criticizing love and affirming her completion
without a man. Yet despite her cynicism she is not initially ostracised. Rather, she is an
advocate of the female perspective; defending her own and her friend’s interests. Marcela’s
subsequent characterisation within the narrative trajectory thus comes as a shock.
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Despite her status as an unlikely candidate for the active pursuit of love, Marcela soon
becomes ‘the other woman’ to Maria Inés’ relationship with Alejandro. Such is Alejandro’s
magnetism that upon meeting him, Marcela abandons her fierce independence and personal
agency, in pursuit of his love. Where Marcela’s activity once focused on her career and
personal independence, it refocuses entirely on Alejandro, as Daniela tells her, ‘Marcela
you always said that you didn’t need any man in order to live. And now you want to keep
one by force. You pursue him, you hunt him, you’re always behind him.’ Marcela is
animalistic; a woman possessed. This unnatural relationship with love emphasises her
deviant behaviour, quickly escalating to sexual perversion, as she tells him ‘I want to
possess you […] I’m not going to stop until I get you in my bed.’
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figures 30-31 – Marcela tries to seduce Alejandro at work
Marcela’s obsession leads to her active rivalry with Maria Inés. Arguing that the
protagonist is more mother than lover, Marcela is convinced that she, a real woman, is the
correct recipient of Alejandro’s affections. In true antagonistic style, she manipulates
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knowledge in order to secure her victory. When Marcela slips her lingerie into Alejandro’s
suit jacket (inevitably found by Maria Inés) she exemplifies the antagonist’s repertoire of
deception. The discordant music that marks these scenes articulates her crazed state as do
Alejandro’s claims that he is victim to her sexual obsession. As he tells Maria Inés;
‘Marcela is crazy Maria. She doesn’t stop at anything. I even went to see the Virgin of
Guadalupe to ask her to protect me’. His invocation of the Virgin of Guadalupe inverts the
gender roles, aligning him with the passive female schema that Marcela’s activity betrays,
and condemning her transgression of ‘appropriate femininity.’
Fittingly, Marcela is ‘punished’ by the male perspective. This is most evident when she
attempts to seduce Alejandro in his home. Telling her to lie on the bed he lectures;
What a pity that I don’t have a mirror on the ceiling. Because then you could see how
ridiculous you look. […] What a pity, really, that there isn’t a mirror, because then you
could feel the same pity that I feel for you. You know why I couldn’t sleep with you?
Because I respect myself. Because if I slept with you I would degrade myself and I
couldn’t look at myself in the mirror.
Through this humiliation, Marcela learns that ‘love comes before sex’ and, ashamed of her
transgressive behaviour, she sets out to right her wrongs. Telling Maria Inés that she wants
to ‘clean up the damage […] that I caused you both’ she is pardoned by the protagonist.
Here it would seem that the female perspective redeems Marcela yet her transgression must
be punished and she is exiled upon narrative conclusion. The final humiliation within her
self-imposed exile occurs when she hands her career over to Alejandro, effectively
relinquishing her status as a career woman to the telenovela galán.
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Evidently, the women within this story do ‘serve as signs’, much like their Manichaean
counterparts within the traditional Mexican telenovela. The final scenes of the telenovela
consolidate this traditionalism. Set one year after Maria Inés’ decision not to marry
Alejandro, her nursery is flourishing and she is a happily independent businesswoman.
Alejandro has returned for a few days from his job in Italy. They stare into each other eyes
and he tells her that he loves her. She has never stopped loving him, yet turns her cheek
when he tries to kiss her. She tells him that she will always be his safe harbour. Yet he
drives away from her, down the hill and out of sight. Viewers are momentarily vindicated
when Alejandro is seen running back to Maria Inés in slow motion. Her face lights up, they
embrace and the camera circles around them. It is a moment of dizzying relief as the
protagonist falls into the embrace of her true love…
Yet the moment that Maria Inés opens her eyes and registers that she is alone, in the street,
staring into the distance, Mirada de Mujer resorts to the traditional telenovela schema.
Undeniably, the narrative does provide a refreshing alternative to the premise that love with
the telenovela galán equals ultimate happiness. Outside of an association with the galán’s
love, Maria Inés is independent of the male gaze, and can be considered free to live her life
beyond the constraints of prescribed femininity. Yet this ‘revision’ of the protagonist’s fate
is not as disruptive as it may seem. Effectively reproducing the same ageist parameters
policing female sexuality within the traditional schema, Maria Inés’ solitary figure at
telenovela end indicates her illegitimacy as a sexual and romantic being, as a middle-aged,
divorced mother of three.
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By denying fulfilment of Maria Inés’ love relationship with the telenovela galán, the
protagonist is discounted as a winner within the telenovela narrative. Exacerbated by the
fact that Maria Inés still loves Alejandro, this ending reads as a non sequitur. Marcela
Mejía argues for the congruence of this ending with the narrative theme. Here María Inés’
assertion that ‘through the love of Alejandro, I learnt that I am a woman, regardless of
having a husband or not, I am a woman’ is enough to justify her single-status upon
narrative conclusion (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). However Mejía also
understood the audience’s reaction, as ‘the public had got to know the character […] and by
the end she does something that does not make sense’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
This is not just a perceived ‘betrayal’ of the character but also of the audience.
Maria Inés’ unfulfilled fate at the conclusion of Mirada de Mujer equated to a betrayal of
the promise made to telenovela viewers. Predicated on the ‘happy ending’ promised at
narrative beginning, telenovela lore states that the protagonist and galán will end the
telenovela in each other’s arms. This is not merely the domain of the rosa text, but any
telenovela subgenre within the Mexican repertoire. Consequently, audience investment in
Maria Inés’ well-being throughout the 121 episodes may have seemed fruitless by
telenovela end.
Furthermore, the uproar did not preclude those academic followers tracing the development
of this purportedly new model for femininity within the Mexican telenovela. Some read
Maria Inés’ single status at the end of Mirada de Mujer as the silencing of the alternative
vision endorsed within the ‘female mirada’, in aid of the ultimate privileging of the
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traditional schema. Perpetuating the same conservative parameters of ‘appropriate’
femininity that traditionally accompany this role, Maria Inés’ age and civil status seem to
deny a revision of the conservative parameters of female citizenship within the Mexican
telenovela formula. This was confirmed by some in the production team, as Argos writer
Laura Sosa explained in interview that ‘I fought a lot about the ending of Mirada de Mujer,
let me tell you. Because it seemed a bit of a macho vision […] that at the end of the day
[…] a fifty year old woman cannot end up with a thirty year old man’ (2007, pers. comm.,
22 January).
These various forms of feedback came through loud and clear for TV Azteca. The airing of
a teaser episode three days after the initial final showed Maria Inés and Alejandro meeting
in a travel agency, and suggested their possible reunion. Yet for many, this was not enough.
As one blogger explained;
The ending itself leaves you with a cliffhanger [sic] whether they will stay together after
their assence [sic] from each other or continue seeing each other as friends. I hate to admit
it but I am a helpless romantic.. [sic] So I go with the option that Maria Ines [sic] and
Alejandro will continue together after this meeting in the travel agency (alecey, 21 January
2002).
Despite the eventual onscreen reunion of Maria Inés and Alejandro in TV Azteca’s Mirada
de Mujer El Regreso (‘The Return’, TV Azteca 2000) viewer doubts regarding the
relationship between the story’s protagonists were not completely alleviated. Deemed an
inferior sequel to the Argos hit, TV Azteca’s follow up was derided by critics, academics
and viewers. Consequently, for many viewers Mirada de Mujer exists as a stand-alone text
and as such, this telenovela de ruptura reiterates the ‘tidy’ version of the nation that
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complies with the traditional formula. The story of a middle aged ex-wife and mother who
is removed from the sexual economy only confirms her illegitimacy as a candidate for
romantic love with the telenovela galán.
The Limitations of Resistance within the Telenovela de Ruptura
Both of the telenovelas de ruptura surveyed within this chapter revert to the construction of
a ‘tidy’ version of the nation by narrative conclusion. Thus what exactly it is that they
‘rupture’ remains unclear.
The limitations to ‘resistance’ within these narratives are
however evident. Tied to the dynamics of the romantic love story, the Manichaean
melodramatic tropes that constitute rivalry for the galán’s love lead to an exclusionary
configuration of female characterisation and citizenship within both of these narratives.
Yet although these narrative tropes disappoint the ‘rupturing’ of the traditional telenovela
schema, it is important not to view this as an equivocal failure of the de ruptura movement
or an indictment of the intentions behind its development. Rather, this era within the
Mexican telenovela's fifty-year history must be understood within the dynamics of the
industry itself. As outlined in Chapter Three, consideration of those tenets of the Mexican
telenovela industry that hinder change ‘because that’s the genre’ and ‘because it’s a
commercial industry’, must follow.
Epigmenio Ibarra highlighted these limitations when arguing the importance of fidelity to
the Manichaean melodramatic form in defence of Mirada de Mujer’s controversial female
characterisation. Amongst his arguments was the assertion that Paulina had to die, as
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‘dramatically her death was inescapable because without that blow, Maria Inés would not
have been able to turn her life around, the ending would not have been possible’
(Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 131). Similarly, among Álvaro Cueva’s most resounding
criticism of the Mexican telenovela form is the impermeability of the melodramatic format.
This was not always his contention.
Writing optimistically in 2001 he celebrated the telenovela de ruptura’s tendency to break
with the schema of the traditional telenovela rosa and its Manichaean narrative mode.
Specifically, he praised its ‘tendency […] to annul values, to break with the schema of the
heroine, the galán and the villains, and to put together beings with multiple characteristics
and values where it is difficult to differentiate between good and bad’ (Cueva 2001, 82).
Cueva suggested that;
because of this, it is no longer possible to talk about the fight between good and evil. Any
character that goes forward or backwards is going to be considered a victim or villain
depending on the context; so much so that some reaction that before could only have been
considered negative, like revenge, have become positive and even desirable with time
(2001, 82-3)
Yet proving to predict the inherent downfall of this form, Cueva acknowledged that ‘it is
not possible to suggest’ that the rise of the de ruptura movement saw ‘all telenovelas
entirely abandon the traditional melodramatic Manichaeism’ (Cueva 2001, 84). Rather, he
suggests that ‘despite the changes, many of them, the majority, continue to maintain moral,
emotional, Christian, musical and structural elements that tie them to their past’ (Cueva
2001, 84). As is evident from both of the telenovelas de ruptura surveyed here, despite the
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complications in the characters’ personae and the inclusion of controversial themes,
morality is often unambiguous and the female dichotomy remains.
However, whilst fidelity to these narrative tropes can be attributed to the demise of the
telenovela de ruptura, in Mexico it would seem that their economic viability constitutes the
bottom line. Here those values that are inherent to the narrative form and that are promoted
by the sponsors and networks involved in financing, producing and broadcasting the
project, as well as endorsed by the viewers through affinity with the genre and the cultural
imaginary from which they manifest, all combine to consolidate this schema.
Consequently, the inclusion of particular ‘social and cultural issues taken from Latin
American reality’ (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 271) may be ‘revolutionary’ in scope, yet does
not necessarily translate to a long-term financially viable product.
To begin, such ‘localised’ reality may not resonate beyond national borders. Telenovelas
must avoid national specificities to ensure transnational ratings success. As discussed in
Chapter Three, the requirement for the telenovela de ruptura to present ‘reality’ yet ensure
a sufficiently relatable story for diverse audiences throughout the world, has seen an
investment in the telenovela love story. Here, the maintenance of the popular romantic
narrative is perceived to secure the currency of these telenovelas de ruptura within a
transnational context. El Candidato and Mirada de Mujer thus reflect this narrative
prerequisite.
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Further ‘ideological censorship’ of these telenovelas de ruptura is evident with the outcry
that many of Argos’ telenovelas have caused within certain conservative circles. Here the
intricate relationship between production conglomerates, sponsors and the Catholic Church,
highlight the limitations to constructing alternative female characterisation on the small
screen. In interview Epigmenio Ibarra alludes to the economic limitations placed on
ideological ‘creativity’ within the production process;
We have limitations because the television isn’t our own and when we launch something,
many stop us […] things get hard with the structure of media ownership, where the desire
of one or a few individuals prevails above what should be the mission of television in
Mexico (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 126).
By identifying Argos’ dependence on the networks for airtime and the consequent
limitations that transpire from this equation, it is possible to see how the modification of
female characterisation and citizenship within the telenovela de ruptura may be limited.
Argos’ defection from TV Azteca to Telemundo in 2001 highlights these inherent
limitations within the Mexican telenovela industry. Seeking to ‘formally become a producer
of content that maintained unconditionally its authorial rights’ (Fernández 2000, n.p.)
Argos signed a three-year, nine telenovela contract with Telemundo in the United States. It
would seem that telenovela production within the Mexican industry could not satisfy
Argos’ vision for a ‘realistic’ televisual nation.
Despite Argos’ return to TV Azteca in 2007, its vision remains abstract. As evident in the
publicity material for the 2008 telenovela Vivir Sin Ti (‘Living Without You’) Argos seems
destined to reproduce the same romantic narrative typical of traditional fare.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 32—Natalia, Juan Carlos and Mariana.
The image is familiar; flanked by his wife Natalia and his young lover Mariana, Juan
Carlos embodies the site of rivalry for two women over one man. One woman wears white,
the other wears black. One woman is the good wife and mother; the other is the morally
ambiguous younger lover. Like Mirada de Mujer before it, Vivir Sin Ti reproduces the story
of a wife and mother dealing with her husband’s infidelities. However, this Argos
telenovela seems more prescriptive than its equivalent from over a decade earlier. Unlike
Mirada de Mujer, Vivir Sin Ti does not indulge Natalia’s independence. By telenovela
conclusion, she returns to Juan Carlos’ side — reclaiming her position as wife and mother
despite his numerous infidelities. The death of Mariana, Juan Carlos’ twenty-four year old
student lover confirms this traditional schema. Although Mariana is somewhat
unconventional, ‘because she is not a frivolous woman and it bothers her that Natalia
suffers so much’, she faces the familiar destiny of the telenovela antagonist. Shot dead by
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the jilted lover of another of Juan Carlos’ conquests, her exile from the telenovela
community allows Natalia to return to her husband’s place.
Despite the new contractual arrangements between Argos and TV Azteca, which give full
ownership of authorial rights to the independent producer, Argos remains limited by its
ongoing reliance on TV Azteca for airtime. As early as 2000, Epigmenio Ibarra argued for
the need of a third channel, acknowledging that Argos’ relationship of convenience with
TV Azteca was not ideal his company’s desire to challenge Mexico’s commercial television
duopoly. He suggested that Televisa would do a service to the nation, relinquishing one of
the many channels that it has within its portfolio; ‘I say that a patriotic gesture and
entrepreneurial sensibility would be for Televisa to get rid of one of its channels that don’t
have rating or even infrastructure’ (cited in Fernández 2002, n.p.).
However, even following such an act of ‘patriotism’ the possibility remains dubious.
Lamenting the high start up costs of a television channel in Mexico, which was suggested
by Hernán Vera to be in the 600 million US dollar range (2007, pers. comm., 22 January),
Ibarra confirmed these inherent limitations of a commercial television industry when
interviewed in 2007 (pers. comm., 9 February). Stating that it is not even possible to label
Mexico’s television system as an industry, Mejía argued that ‘there are two very important
family businesses but an industry so to speak, does not exist. They do not operate as an
industry […] they make no effort to improve the product […] they are two families that
desire control over certain things’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
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This reiteration of the ultimately commercial and conservative nature of the Mexican
telenovela industry highlights those factors that were key to the ‘demise’ of the telenovela
de ruptura. The seemingly limited compatibility between the commercial industry and this
‘revolutionary’ form has lead many scholars and critics to declare their disappointment with
the industry. Many others who dedicated pages to espousing the new era of Mexican
television have merely turned to other fields in light of its purported failure.
Álvaro Cueva was one of those few who have analysed its demise. Writing in 2001 at
arguably the height of the ‘new wave’ of Mexican telenovelas, Cueva saw a bright future
ahead. He argued that the Mexican telenovela was finally of age, ‘perfectly cooked’ and
ready for ‘the true spectacle of serial melodrama’ to begin (Cueva 2001, 138) such that
‘what we have seen since 1950 to date will be nothing in comparison to what we will see
within a few years’ (Cueva 2001, 138). He even ventured ‘I will put myself out there and
say that fifty years later, telenovelas are, for the first time since their birth, the
contemporary of international communication’ (Cueva 2001, 139). Yet less than a decade
later he questioned ‘what’s wrong with us? What’s happening to out television?’ (Cueva
2007, n.p.). Stating that ‘I’ve become pessimistic about the future of Mexican television’
Cueva confirmed the Mexican telenovela’s inherent recourse to tradition as ‘the more time
that passes, the more I realise that instead of going forward, this medium of communication
goes backwards’ (Cueva 2007, n.p.).
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The Demise of the Telenovela de Ruptura…?
Considering the inherently cyclical nature of the Mexican telenovela industry helps to
frame the ‘demise’ of the telenovela de ruptura era as somewhat inevitable. Epigmenio
Ibarra suggested as much when critiquing Televisa’s attempts to engage with the telenovela
de ruptura movement, arguing that fiscal incentives meant recourse to traditionalism as
‘[what] they know how to do makes them a lot of money and gives them a lot of success,
but there is a problem with inertia’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 134). For Ibarra, this
‘inertia’ has meant that in the aftermath of the de ruptura movement, Televisa telenovelas
became even more traditional. Yet such assertions can be made about the industry as a
whole, as this tendency to return ‘like a pendulum, even more so, to the traditional schema’
(Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 134) has paralysed the ability for ‘rupture’ to occur beyond
the short-term. This confirms what Álvaro Cueva has referred to as the ‘frivolous vision’ of
television in Mexico, where ‘everything revolves around the day’s ratings’, to the detriment
of a ‘telenovela proposal’ to ‘take the telenovela in this direction’ (2007, pers comm., 12
January).
Despite the various trends in innovation throughout the Mexican telenovela’s fifty-year
history, the ‘pendulum’ has inevitably swung back to more traditional — and more
financially viable — telenovela fare. In 2007 Laura Sosa stated that ‘in recent years there
has been a tendency towards a very strong conservatism in Mexican television’ which has
lead to ‘a tendency for censorship’ (2007, pers. comm., 5 February). Consequently, ‘if in
2003 […] one spoke of a homosexual relationship in La Vida en el Espejo (‘Life in the
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Mirror’), now it is impossible to speak of a homosexual […] unless he is being ridiculed’
(2007, pers. comm., 5 February).
It would seem that the ongoing commercial viability of the ideologically ‘sound’ romantic
love story ultimately undermines any permanent change that may accompany such
‘movements’ as the telenovela de ruptura. Whilst articulating a certain national mood or
sentiment, and providing variation to the formula, they are ultimately only trends within a
long trajectory. Invariably described as ‘a parade of masks, certainly renewable but
invariably destined to an old comedy’ (Le Gallo 1998, 359) it would seem that the Mexican
telenovela cannot avoid its fateful recourse to traditionalism. Consequently, the future of
Mexican broadcast television, its telenovela favourite, and the civil status of those
protagonists that have graced its narratives look remarkably ordinary.
Yet like all good telenovela narratives, it is always darkest before the dawn, and the
trajectory of the Mexican telenovela and the citizenship afforded its leading ladies does not
end so tragically. Whilst the telenovela de ruptura may not have ‘created the sea change in
the telenovela that some people expected’ (Estill 2001, 170) this does not mean that there is
no trace of the de ruptura movement in what can be considered the gradual but ongoing
transformation of the telenovela form and its contemporary manifestations, despite frequent
recourse to tradition. Nor does it mean that the commercial nature of the industry will only
secure recourse to traditionalism.
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Here, the notion that the Mexican telenovela history is cyclical must be problematised.
Whilst it is inherently useful for complicating the notion of a linear model, which may
accompany a consideration of the fifty-year history of the Mexican telenovela, the notion of
the cycle lends itself to a simplified model of the evolving form. Certainly this discourse of
a reversion to tradition is evident throughout much critical writing on the demise of the
telenovela de ruptura and its aftermath, as well as within the interviews conducted with
academics and some industry professionals. Yet in order to understand how this form has
changed over time, and may continue to do so, this model must be refined. Following this
revision, the notion that the industry’s commercial nature leads only to tradition must be
reconsidered.
Working with the logic of a cyclical industry, yet one that incorporates change within its
repetitious repertoire is the notion of spiraled history. Within the model of a spiral,
telenovelas develop outwards through time and with the political, cultural and industrial
changes that accompany the historical circumstances of each era. Yet they also radiate
around a core, which constitutes those ideological values at the heart of the cultural
imaginary, which are inherent to the Manichaean melodramatic form, and which for
audiences, are synonymous with the viewing experience.
Yet to illustrate the ways in which ‘failed’ telenovela ‘movements’ can continue to resonate
throughout the form’s history, the analogy of an earthquake is useful. Here, as the political
and cultural landscape changes, so too does the face of the telenovela, although in response
to the deep seeded cultural imaginary of which female mythification is a key component, its
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core remains relatively intact. Nonetheless, with these ‘quakes’ come the ‘aftershocks’, and
as such the changes manifested within particular ‘movements’ continue to ‘tremor’ within
the contemporary context.
This model of both a spiraled and ‘seismic’ history of the Mexican telenovela illustrates
how those movements, subgenres and trends that have developed throughout its past as a
manifestation of a particular mood or time may maintain a link to tradition, but nonetheless
change the landscape of the form. Consequently, the new spaces for female characterisation
which open up within ‘movements’ like the telenovela de ruptura may often be closed
down upon narrative conclusion, but they remain forever imprinted in the annals of female
characterisation and the archive of narrative possibilities for future ratings success.
Arguably through time, they may enable a ‘rupturing’ of the dichotomous schema at the
telenovela’s heart.
This dynamic is evident within the much loved telenovela Cuna de Lobos (‘Den of
Wolves’, Televisa 1986-7) which is a particularly fitting example for its relationship to the
devastating 1985 earthquake in Mexico City (Cueva 2006, 14). The success of this
telenovela has been much touted in the press. In a 2006 publication celebrating the 20th
anniversary of Cuna de Lobos, Álvaro Cueva recounts how’
all of Mexico turned inside out to watch this telenovela. People left work early to tune in to
Cuna de lobos; men and women interrupted their daily activities to avoid missing any
detail. Bars and restaurants, that normally played sports on their TV screens, changed
channels to tune in to Cuna de lobos. The streets emptied, the subject was even discussed
in the Chamber of Deputies, and declarations of popular support were the order of the day,
not for Leonora, the heroine, but for Catalina Creel, the villainess (Cueva 2006, 17).
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Yet this success was also unprecedented. It was not, according to the actress playing its
protagonist, a ‘stellar’ telenovela in the Televisa line-up. As she recalls, it was ‘a strange
novela. That had nothing to do with the criteria of the time. It was not a star-studded
telenovela. It was not a melodramatic telenovela, it was a type of thriller’ (cited in Cueva
2006, 45).
As a result of such success, Cuna de Lobos endorsed the production of similar ‘thrillers’ as
‘Mexican telenovelas started to fill up with psychopaths, short scenes, false leads and an
infinity of malevolence’ (Cueva 1998, 203) Yet although these psychotic and socially
disturbing stories which painted such ‘unfamiliarly’ cruel portraits of the ‘great Mexican
family’ (Cueva 2006, 14) soon gave way to the traditional romantic love story once more
(Cueva 1998, 203) the popularity of Cuna de Lobos left a legacy that continues to resonate
today. Indeed the unprecedented popularity of the telenovela’s villainess Catalina Creel,
and the ratings success of a narrative that undermined the protagonist’s ‘sacred’
engagement with the institutions of marriage and maternity, proved the financial viability
of such unconventional telenovela narratives. Stored within the archive of narrative
possibilities for future ratings success, the financial viability of this unconventional female
characterisation remains.
Testament to the seismic and spiralling nature of the Mexican telenovela industry, the
following chapter explores the legacy of the ratings success of the telenovela de ruptura
movement and the thriller subgenre, through an analysis of the teen and comedic subgenres.
Specifically, it explores how the quest for new ratings hits in an increasingly threatened
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industry can ultimately undermine the exclusionary configurations of female citizenship
within the heterosexual love story. Ironically, despite the limitations that the conservative
and commercially orientated Mexican telenovela industry can pose on the ‘rupturing’ of an
exclusionary female citizenship, such commercialism can provide their unexpected
configuration within these alternative narratives. How these new subgenres enable new
configurations of female characterisation and citizenship constitutes the focus of Chapter
Six.
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Chapter Six
The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’:
‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the
Teen and Comedic Subgenres
Chapter Six: The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’: ‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the Teen and Comedic Subgenres
‘Love and hate- how they tore her asunder! Surely it was time someone invented
a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes…’
— Between the Acts, Virginia Woolf
The effect of a profits-driven approach to telenovela production is not necessarily the
closure of unconventional yet non-financially viable narratives and characterisation. As
seen with Cuna de Lobos (1986) it can in fact lead to the experimentation of new telenovela
‘types’ which provide the opportunity for executives to capitalise on trends, often linked to
‘national sentiment’. This market logic is rabid within the contemporary transnational
telenovela industry, as television producers negotiate the changing demands not only of
local national television audiences, but also those foreign audiences whose preference for
cultural proximity is accommodated by increased local production. As O’Boyle wrote in
2007, ‘the market for finished telenovelas is getting tighter [as] more territories that were
once telenovela dumping grounds […] produce more of their own content’ (O’Boyle
2007a, n.p.).
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Countering this threat to the transnational currency of the Mexican telenovela, executives
search out texts which capitalise not just on ‘national sentiment’ but also niche markets,
and global and local trends. Testament to this ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 65) Álvaro
Cueva has listed what in 2001 he deemed to be at least the 45 different telenovela
subgenres to date. Whether biographical, historical, didactic, thriller, comic, child, teen,
class room, medical or police novela (Cueva 2001, 41-56), each of these subgenres is a
product of this commercial industry. Clearly what appeals most to executives about the
myriad subgenres is the potential for ratings success with an increasingly fragmented
audience. Yet most importantly here is the potential for these different narratives to break
with the process of female mythification inherent to the traditional formula.
This chapter explores texts from particular telenovela subgenres whose alternative narrative
focus derails the exclusionary characterisation and citizenship tied to the love story
traditionally at its heart. An analysis of those texts which do not ensure narrative drive
through female rivalry for the telenovela galán, reveals how female characterisation can
exist beyond the strictures of the traditional love story. The teen novela Rebelde (‘Rebel’
2004 Televisa) and the comedic novela La Fea más Bella (‘The Most Beautiful Ugly Girl’
2007 Televisa) do invest in the romance narrative. Not to do so would be to defy the
telenovela’s raison d’être. Yet they provide alternative configurations of female
characterisation and citizenship through the inclusion of core non-romance oriented plots.
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By displacing female rivalry and its dichotomous femininity, the characters within these
telenovelas embody different relationships with the traditional tenets of ‘appropriate
femininity’. Effectively illustrating the ways in which the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral
2007, 65) can trump the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1995, 56) Rebelde and La Fea
más Bella highlight the benefits of commercial logic to an inclusionary female
characterisation and citizenship within this narrative form. Yet further to this phenomenon,
the extraordinary ratings success of both narratives illustrates how telenovela subgenres can
challenge the notion that female characterisation is a prescriptive formula that must remain
intact ‘because that is what the public wants.’
Here the potential for commercial logic to displace the Manichaean moral equation is
consolidated by the success of such ‘post-romantic’ subgenres. Following this lead, an
analysis of the ‘post romantic’ drive found within Rebelde and La Fea más Bella benefits
from Rachel Blau Du Plessis’ study on how writers have formerly negotiated the
prescriptive romance narratives at the heart of many narrative texts.
‘Post Romantic’ Strategies for ‘Writing beyond the Ending’
In Writing beyond the Ending- Narrative Strategies of Twentieth-Century Women Writers
(1985) Rachel Blau Du Plessis argues that ‘all forms of dominant narrative, but especially
romance, are tropes for the sex-gender system as a whole’ (Du Plessis 1985, 43). Founded
upon ‘extremes of sexual difference […] the romance plot muffles the main female
character’ in several ways (Du Plessis 1985, 5). By promoting ‘individuals within couples
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as a sign of their personal and narrative success’ it not only ‘evokes an aura around the
couple itself’ but also represses female quest, of which independent agency is key (Du
Plessis 1985, 5). Further consolidating ‘the sex-gender system’, the romance plot endorses
heterosexual over homosexual and sororal ties (Du Plessis 1985, 5). Finally, this ‘narrative
as ideology’ (Du Plessis 1985, 45) is ultimately secured through its investment in ‘the end’,
which seals the fate of female characters within ‘patrisexual’ (Du Plessis 1985, 37)
romance narratives.
For Du Plessis, the inevitable ‘marriage/death closure in the romance plot is a “place”
where ideology meets narrative and produces a meaning-laden figure of some story’ (Du
Plessis 1985, 19). Where marriage represents ‘a successful integration with society, in
which the gain is both financial and romantic success in the “heterosexual contract” […]
death is caused by inabilities or improprieties in this negotiation, [as] a way of deflecting
attention from man made social norms to cosmic sanctions’ (Du Plessis 1985, 4). Speaking
to the logic of the telenovela’s Manichaean configuration of female citizenship, female
characters are rewarded or punished for their ‘ability to negotiate with sexuality and
kinship’ (Du Plessis 1985, 19).
Yet beyond mirroring the traditional telenovela’s narrative schema, Du Plessis suggests
how such narrative tropes can be destabilised. By focusing on those ‘postromantic’
narrative strategies deployed by such ‘twentieth-century women writers’ as Virginia Woolf,
Alice Walker, Adrienne Rich and Margaret Atwood, Du Plessis reveals how these women
‘call narrative form into question […] [through] a complex of narrative acts of psychosocial
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meanings […] [offering] a different set of choices’ than marriage and death (Du Plessis
1985, 4). In so doing, these women negotiate the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56)
and its ‘avalanche of events moving to “satisfactory solutions”’ (Du Plessis 1985, 50). Yet
their strategies do not pertain exclusively to the narrative’s conclusion. In order to ‘change
fiction so that it makes alternative statements about gender and its institutions’ (Du Plessis
1985, x) the romance plot as a whole remains a ‘site for their interpretation, scrutiny,
critique, and transformation of narrative’ (Du Plessis 1985, 4).
This project, which Du Plessis calls ‘writing beyond the ending’ takes ‘ending as a
metaphor for conventional narrative, for a regimen of resolutions, and for the social, sexual,
and ideological affirmations these make’ (Du Plessis 1985, 21). Attacking both the
‘tyranny’ of the conventional heteronormative ending as well as those narrative tropes
which facilitate its construction, this ‘writing beyond the ending’ is achieved through ‘the
transgressive invention of narrative strategies […] [that] sever the narrative from formerly
conventional structures of fiction and consciousness about women’ (Du Plessis 1985, x).
At the heart of these ‘postromantic’ strategies ‘to break with the script of romantic
thraldom’ (Du Plessis 1985, 80) is a break from the tradition of marriage as an ideological
and narrative aspiration/denouement. For Du Plessis, ‘the resistance to marriage was the
resistance to the production of women by gender polarization, gender asymmetry, gender
limitations’ (Du Plessis 1985, 148). As a means of resisting such narrative tropes the tactics
of ‘breaking the sentence’ and ‘breaking the sequence’ are introduced. Similar in their
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attempts to break with conventional narrative codes, these strategies nonetheless work at
different scales within the text.
‘Breaking the sentence’ works on the micro level and invokes Virginia Woolf’s notion of
the ‘woman’s sentence’ as well as Luce Irigaray and other feminist psychoanalytical work
on the ‘blanks’ of a particularly ‘feminine’ language (Du Plessis 1985, 33). On a macro
level ‘breaking the sequence’ involves ‘restructuring’ the ‘order and priorities’ of narrative
itself (Du Plessis 1985, x). This tactic sees a ‘rupture in habits of narrative order, [in] that
expected story told when “love was the only possible interpreter” of women’s textual lives’
(Woolf in Du Plessis, 1985, 34). This refusal to end in the ‘happily ever after’ of marriage
and maternity, sees such narrative drive rejected as the only ‘means to an end’ by these
women writers.
Thus ‘breaking the sequence’ delegitimates the romance plot through alternate
configurations of human relations such as ‘reparenting in invented families’ (Du Plessis
1985, xi), ‘mother-child dyads’ (Du Plessis 1985, 35) ‘fraternal-sororal ties’ (Du Plessis
1985, xi) and ‘emotional attachment to women in bisexual love plots, female bonding, and
lesbianism (Du Plessis 1985, xi). Here, the importance of female relationships in their
many forms is emphasised through the text, with female erotic, platonic and kin
relationships configured as one of the key areas in which ‘the Gordian knots of both
heterosexuality and narrative convention’ can be cut (Du Plessis 1985, 149).
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A final key strategy that speaks to the logic of female mythification within the Mexican
telenovela form, involves engaging with mythic narrative to reveal those ‘culturally
repressive functions of narrative’ which ensure ‘the illusion of a timeless, unhistorical
pattern that [in fact] controls reality’ (Du Plessis 1985, 134). Yet for Du Plessis, the process
of ‘narrative displacement’ within each of these strategies, involves the retelling of a
familiar story from a noncanonical perspective (Du Plessis 1985, 109). This ‘giving voice’
to the ‘muted’, ‘despised’ and/or ‘marginalized’ ‘Other’ side of the story’ is considered to
be the ‘woman’s side’ which ‘offers a third way, beyond the antimonies of gender
polarization’ (Du Plessis 1985, 151).
Although the Mexican telenovela does not provide such conscious strategies for ‘writing
beyond the ending’, it does inadvertently parallel some of the approaches identified by Du
Plessis. In particular it is the use of stories that ‘have nothing to do with our accepted
gender roles’ (Russ in Du Plessis 1985, 182) such as a focus on ‘detective stories,
supernatural fiction, and science fiction’ that mirror the potential for telenovela subgenres
to open up alternative configurations of female characterisation and citizenship (Du Plessis
1985, 182)34. The teen and comic telenovelas explored within this chapter illustrate the
ways in which these subgenres can ‘write beyond the ending’ of the romance plot to
‘displace’ marriage and maternity as the ultimate endeavour for female characterisation.
The emphasis on friendship, the collective protagonist, the ability for quest and romance to
34
Russ writes; ‘of all the possible actions people can do in fiction, very few can be done by women.’ Thus
because ‘culture is male [and] our literary myths are for heroes, not heroines,’ she suggests that women
writers develop plots which go beyond the romantic love story and ‘have nothing to do with our accepted
gender roles’ (Russ 1995, 90).
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coexist and on comedy’s indulgence of transgressive behaviours, helps to ‘displace’ the
traditional telenovela formula.
Teenage Rebellion
“’Cos I’m rebellious, when I don’t follow the crowd”
— RBD lyrics
True to its provocative title and song lyrics, the teen novela Rebelde challenges the
traditional Mexican telenovela focus on ‘romantic thraldom’ (Du Plessis 1985, 80) in
several ways. Here, it is Rebelde’s endorsement of rebelliousness and its focus on
facilitating the crossover success of the teen pop band RBD, which destabilise the schema
of romance narrative as telenovela core. Consequently, the female citizenship within this
narrative community is altered, as female rivalry and the policing of ‘appropriate’
femininity are displaced as the source of narrative drive. Furthermore, Rebelde’s ‘post
romantic’ narrative places emphasis on quest, thereby denying ‘marriage and maternity as
the ultimate endeavour for female characterisation’ and therefore ‘“love [as] the only
possible interpreter” of women’s textual lives’ (Woolf in Du Plessis 1985, 34).
Ultimately, the phenomenal success that followed Rebelde’s appeal to teen markets
provides a profound example of how the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 65) can trump the
‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56). Specifically, the global ‘RebeldeMania’ (Kun
2006b, n.p.) that Rebelde generated, suggests the commercial viability of alternative
narratives within the Mexican telenovela. Achieving an average 23 percent of audience
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share (Kun 2006b, n.p.) over its three season-440 hour-long episode run, Rebelde was one
of the longest running telenovelas in Mexican history.
Further to its commercial viability, ‘RebeldeMania’ extended beyond borders. As New
York Times journalist Josh Kun writes, Rebelde became ‘the blueprint for the transnational
age of the telenovela: financed in one country, broadcast in another, and then franchised to
more than 50 different international markets’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.). Narrating the sufficiently
‘local’ story of a group of boarding students at the exclusive Elite Way School where
Mexico’s trust fund children receive an exclusive education and social contacts that will
pave their future success, this telenovela included a crucial element key to its transnational
success. Leora Nir- vice president for television programming within Dori Media, the
Israeli Production company that funded Rebelde- explained that ‘The idea was to enter the
international marketplace through a good, high values teen telenovela which would
incorporate one of the most important elements of youth lives — music’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.).
It is precisely Rebelde’s narration of six ‘rebellious’ students who form the pop band RBD
which lead to global ‘RebeldeMania’. The formula at play within this teen enterprise was
so perfectly ‘tuned’ that Rebelde/RBD expanded exponentially. This included a successful
spin-off series in 2007,35 numerous ‘Gold’, ‘Platinum’ and ‘Diamond’ albums,36 as well as
sold out concerts throughout Latin America, Europe, Asia and the United States. One much
cited statistic describes how ‘when the group played the Los Angeles Coliseum in April
[2006], it drew 65,000 fans and earned a total of $3.1 million, the second highest-grossing
35
Entitled RBD: La Familia (‘RBD: The Family’) it follows the lives of the ‘real world’ band members.
Including Rebelde (2004), Nuestro Amor (2005), Celestial (2006) the English language album Rebels
(2006) and Empezar Desde Cero (2007)
36
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concert in the stadium's history (ahead of Madonna and U2, just behind the Rolling
Stones)’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.). Only when the group announced its split on the 4th of August
2008 did the phenomenon pause for breath.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 33- Guadalupe, Diego, Mia, Miguel,
Figure 34- English-language album cover
Roberta & Giovanni
Critics and producers alike have attributed this unprecedented success to the cross
promotional platform, provided by the relationship between the ‘fictional’ and ‘real’ worlds
within the television show and music group. As Pedro Damián, the mastermind behind the
phenomenon explained, ‘The group started as a fiction on the show and then it became real
life […] Now the real life has surpassed the fiction. When they decided to make a record on
the show, they had already sold three million records in the real world’ (Damián in Kun
2006b, n.p.). The marketing blitz that accompanied the phenomenon from the beginning
was crucial to its power. As Damián clarified, ‘we knew we had to create a lifespan for
'Rebelde' that would go beyond the soap opera […] We talked about a magazine, a radio
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program, merchandising, sponsorships, a musical group, concerts. It was a whole ‘Rebelde’
concept’ (Damián in Kun 2006b, n.p.). Yet the particularly innocuous nature of this
rebellion was most important in attracting audiences and investors alike.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 35- A Variety of Rebelde/RBD merchandise and product endorsement
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Differentiating rebellion from its socialist roots, in particular the Zapatista rebel movement
that began in the Chiapan jungle in 1994, Damián clarified that ‘to be rebelde used to mean
you had to have a mask and a gun and come out of the jungle’. In the new version, the
balaclava synonymous with Mexico’s previously most famous rebels was replaced with a
new symbol of disobedience; the Elite Way School uniform. Exactly what this
‘rebelliousness’ entailed seemed irrelevant to the ‘concept’. No political parties were
named or shamed. No civil or international conflicts were cited. Here rebellion was shifted
from the public sphere into the personal realm, as a ‘lifestyle and an aesthetic’ free from
political persuasion (Kun 2006b, n.p.).
Appealing to teenage viewers, the rebellion promoted was that which endorsed rebellion
within the confines of an institution, by questioning authority (parents and teachers), and
fighting for justice (the right to choose one’s own future, including the right to sing in a
band). Arguing that ‘it doesn’t matter if it is an authentic rebelliousness or if the characters
rebel against something which is worth rebelling against’ scholar Guillermo Orozco Gómez
identified the dynamics of this leitmotiv as hanging ‘vaguely on the interpretation of all the
characters’ (21). Here rebellion meant freedom to be an individual, which as Damian
clarified ‘is something that everyone wants to be’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.).
The synonymy between rebellion and individualism only served to propel the attractiveness
of the ‘rebelde concept’ to advertisers. Keen to cash in on the ‘rebel’ leitmotiv and its teen
market, sponsors jumped on board. Thus in addition to ‘the usual merchandising onslaught
of T-shirts and ring tones’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.) the faces of the sextet representing the
Rebelde brand could be found in a ‘manga comic book series, [on] chewing gum, handbags,
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candy and stationery’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.). Each had their own perfume or cologne and
Barbie doll in their likeness. Adding to the extensive product placement throughout the
television show, RBD’s promotional portfolio ranged from restaurant chains to personal
hygiene and beauty products, as well as food and beverage brands. Such was the
promotional power of this group that US guest artists such as Lenny Kravitz, Gorillaz and
Hilary Duff appeared on the television show to gain access to Latin markets. The power of
the ‘Rebel’ ‘leitmotiv’ was perhaps most apparent when in 2005 Enrique Peña Nieto used
the teen hit ‘Rebelde’ as his campaign song for election as Governor of the State of Mexico,
and won (Kun 2006b, n.p.).
Reconceptualising the RBD Nation
Despite the impressive nature of this marketing prowess, not all telenovela critics were
encouraged by the ‘rebel concept’. Orozco Gómez has identified Rebelde as perhaps the
most pertinent example of what he considers to be a worrying trend within the
contemporary industry. Suggesting ‘we are at the dawn of a new, intensely commercial
social contract, between television melodrama and audiences’ (Orozco Gómez 2006, 19) he
proposes that ‘telenovelas and those who create them now seem solely concerned with their
saleability’ (Orozco Gómez 2006, 17). Consequently, like ‘‘brand name’ merchandise’
(Orozco Gómez 2006, 16) for exportation, the telenovela’s increased globalisation fails to
reflect ‘an adequate interpretation and recreation of culture’ and ultimately leads to loss of
‘cultural specificity’ (Orozco Gómez 2006, 17).
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For Orozco this formula of cultural ‘standardization and profitability’ (Martín-Barbero in
Orozco Gómez 2006, 17) is merely a vehicle for consumption of ‘attractive images’ around
the world. However his indictment of the contemporary industry overlooks two important
aspects of this trend. Firstly, his identification of Rebelde as culturally vacuous and
‘inauthentic’ through its standardisation, marketability and commodification gives
unchecked authority to the cultural representation within those more traditional telenovela
texts that he compares it with. Although Rebelde may not include such cultural markers as
the mariachi (Rosalinda) the charro (Fuego en la Sangre) or the tequila fields (Destilando
Amor) it perpetuates the same exclusionary raced and classed nations at play within these
more ‘authentic’ cultural texts. Secondly, Orozco does not account for how such a
‘culturally odourless’ (Iwabuchi 2000, 55) and ‘delocalised’ text (Straubhaar 1991) as
Rebelde can provide alternative possibilities for the symbolic demography of Mexican
citizenry, including gender dynamics.
It is Rebelde’s focus on the transnational teen market that erases those markers of cultural
specificity, which replicate female mythification. This ‘odourlessness’ then paves the way
for narratives devoid of the cultural ‘baggage’ evident in the traditional form.
Consequently, it is precisely those characteristics within Rebelde that Orozco identifies as
‘culturally vacuous’, which allow it to incorporate different configurations of femininity.
Specifically, via the investment in the rebel leitmotiv over nationally resonant narratives,
Rebelde breaks with the exclusionary female characterisation and citizenship evident in its
more mature form.
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The following analysis considers how the ‘rebelde concept’ destabilises this traditional
narrative formula via a ‘teenage’ visual aesthetic, the intense commercialisation of the
Rebelde brand, the multiple teen protagonists, the investment in a rebel consciousness, and
finally, the alternative narrative drive provided by the band’s quest for success. Within
these manifold narrative elements, Rebelde undermines both the Manichaean melodramatic
narrative, as well as the traditional tenets of appropriate femininity and female rivalry that
are inherent to the traditional form.
Rebelling against Female Mythification
Key to Rebelde’s appeal to the teen market through the ‘rebel’ leitmotiv is its semiotic
portrayal of rebelliousness. This ‘teen’ filming style is marked by a ‘narrative explosion’
through what Orozco Gomez criticises as a ‘multitude of simultaneous storylines, tacked
together at whim, almost in the style of a “video clip”’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 30). Stating
that ‘the story is interrupted, remaining nothing more than a pretext for disconnected
narrative fragments, which are only plausible because of their vague reference to a
supposed central, non narrative theme’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 31) Orozco inadvertently
identifies how narrative ‘vacuity’ can lead to a break in the traditional formula. Indeed, ‘in
this type of story, the melodrama is toned down whilst the ‘special effects’ through which
they seek to capture the viewer’s attention are increased’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 31).
Exacerbating this schema is the ‘commodification’ inherent to the Rebelde brand. Through
the inclusion of multiple advertising slots that incorporate non-narratively specific dialogue
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around product placement, the Manichaean melodramatic narrative is sidelined by the logic
of brand recognition.
This fragmentary, ‘chaotic’ form of narration is invaluable to Rebelde’s ability to ‘write
beyond’ the prescriptive telenovela ending. Indeed, by ‘exploding’ the narrative in such
ways, Rebelde ‘explodes’ the melodrama’s ability to execute a dichotomous representation
of its female characters through a centralized female rivalry. The teens live a plethora of
momentary yet intense rivalries within their platonic and familial relationships.
Consequently, female rivalry is a relatively momentary and secondary thread within the
narrative.
This is evident upon considering the many complicated and transitory configurations of
rivalry within the telenovela. Mia is pitted against Roberta from telenovela beginning and
rivals her for the role of most popular girl in school. Yet Mia also rivals Sol for the same
reason. Similarly Mia rivals her future stepmother Valeria for her father’s love, as well as
Sabrina who attempts to steal her boyfriend Miguel. Likewise Roberta rivals Sol for
Diego’s love, but mostly for influence over her classmates. Roberta later rivals Diego’s
girlfriend Paola as she tries to win his love. Conversely, she then rivals Raquel for stealing
her best friend Luján’s boyfriend. Clearly Luján rivals Raquel too, as do Mia, Vico and
Celina who think she is a snob. Sol rivals all of the girls bar Raquel for the same reason
whereas Pilar rivals them all because she has no friends. Guadalupe tries to avoid rivalry
but nonetheless rivals her sister Lola, who also rivals Roberta for Diego’s affections. Celina
similarly tries to avoid rivalry but is forced by Mia to take sides as a part of ‘Mia’s Club’.
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This means that Roberta rivals Celina and Vico, who in turn rival Luján…. and the list goes
on.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 36- Lujan, Pilar, Mia, Guadalupe, Celina, Roberta and Vico (on bike) as seven of the
multiple female protagonists
Perhaps best articulated by the boys who wonder; ‘dude, really, I don’t understand why
chicks always fight with other chicks, what’s up with that?’ it is clear that Rebelde’s female
rivalry has little logic. To this confusion is the added difficulty of determining who is the
protagonist or antagonist within the narrative. When Roberta rivals Paola, she exhibits all
of the attributes of the antagonist by manipulating knowledge about Diego’s feelings for
Paola, and exhibiting an extreme agency that involves compromising perceptions of her
own virginity in order to end the relationship. Conversely, Roberta then fights Raquel for
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doing the same thing to her best friend Luján. The fierce loyalty that she shows to her
friend follows the schema of the heroic protagonist.
Consequently, not only are there countless trivial conflicts between the complex female
characters, but the existence of multiple protagonists further complicates the ‘essentialism’
of these rivalries. The three female protagonists within the ‘rebelde concept’ are Mia,
Roberta and Guadalupe (Lupita) who form the female contingent of RBD. Yet the
telenovela also narrates the stories of Vico, Celina, Luján, Sol, Pilar, Sabrina, Julia and
Alma Rey, among others. Criticised by Orozco Gomez as multiple stories ‘which culminate
in a variety of melodramas encapsulated within one major melodrama’, this may well be an
attempt to ‘diversify the protagonists’ and so ‘proportionately increase audience
identification’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 30). However, Orozco Gomez does not account for
the transgressive power of this unique narrative formulation. In addition to this increased
appeal to audiences through multiple protagonists, the inclusion of many key female
characters clouds the narrative’s ability to effect a dichotomous battle between ‘virgin’ and
‘whore.’ Indeed the range of character trajectories throughout the telenovela explodes such
‘linear’ polarity.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 37- the rebellious students of Elite W ay School
Even if Mia and Roberta are situated as the two main female protagonists due to their role
as love interests to classmates and fellow band members Miguel and Diego, they do not
execute the same female rivalry and consequent dichotomy within the traditional formula.
In fact, their relationship develops from rivalry to harmonious coexistence. Initially, the
two clash due to their different philosophies on life. Mia wants to give the ‘trashy’ Roberta
a preppy make over whilst Roberta sees Mia as a life-sized Barbie with brains to match.
Their rivalry as the leaders of opposing groups escalates throughout the semester and
culminates in an unauthorised boxing match. As the two rivals beat each other to
exhaustion, they epitomise the symbolic battle between the traditional telenovela’s
protagonist and antagonist.
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Following the tropes of female mythification, a traditional reading would place Mia as the
virginal protagonist. She is a pretty blonde who wears natural makeup and neat clothes, and
whose sweet and bubbly demeanour endears her to her teachers, family and friends. In
contrast, Roberta’s punk style, demanding personality and active agency, align her with the
figure of the aggressive antagonist. Yet the very premise and status of Rebelde as teen
novela undermine these traditions.
At times both Mia and Roberta appear as the typical protagonist. As children of single
parent families, both are reminiscent of the protagonist whose unknown parentage is
revealed throughout the narrative. Similarly, both are well-intentioned, honest and positive
influences on the people around them. However, they both exhibit antagonistic traits. Mia is
a spoilt brat whose sheltered life lends her a prejudice against those less privileged. Her
sense of elitism translates to a ‘malinchista’ rejection of the ‘parochial’, for more ‘cultured’
tastes. It is not uncommon for Mia to insult her on-again/off-again boyfriend Miguel as a
‘second rate redneck from nowhere’. In a similar criticism of her ‘lower class’ status,
Roberta is often defined as ‘the queen of the rednecks.’ Roberta’s brash bossiness, tomboy
style and status as the daughter of a famous showgirl whose body is showcased in revealing
outfits, is similarly antagonistic. Her self-assurance borders on arrogance and she projects a
sense of worldliness that extends to sexual experience, as Mia speculates ‘you’ve already
done it, right? […] Obviously.’
Yet far from occupying the role of the antagonist, Roberta’s rebelliousness, personal
agency and challenge to authority are encouraged within the ‘rebelde concept’. Her attitude
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is celebrated throughout the telenovela narrative as an admirable and altruistic trait, as her
mother Alma explains; ‘You have always been impulsive, restless, bold, a little stubborn
but above all, very much a rebel.’ Even her beleaguered class and band mates concur,
conceding that ‘Despite the fact that you are crazy and nobody can stand you, you are a
chick that always fights for what you want and who never gives up. Don’t ever change
Roberta, seriously.’
Thus far from provoking a rivalry with the more passive Mia, Roberta’s rebelliousness is
framed as a positive influence on her female ‘counterpart.’ By challenging authority and
developing a sense of justice, Mia matures to become a more complex persona.
Consequently, by telenovela end the vastly different personalities of Mia and Roberta are
configured as complimentary. This unity is symbolised by their shared birth date and one
excited guest at their party exclaims; ‘One is impulsive and energetic like the wind, and the
other is attractive and seductive like a summer night. Together they are the force and the
passion of youth!’ Their ultimate union as stepsisters confirms this equation, and the onetime rivals finally concede that ‘Even though we may be so unlike and have such enormous
differences, you will always be with me. I love you so much.’
Finally, despite Orozco’s indictment of rebellion as an innocuous theme, it mounts a
serious challenge to the perceived corruption and cynicism of the established order.
Whether through the students’ general ‘right to demand our rights’ or more specifically
within Diego’s decision to expose his corrupt politician father, rebellion poses a threat to
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authority’s established norms. Examples of this fight can be found within the alternative
configurations of female characterisation and citizenship throughout the narrative.
When Celina gets pregnant and is expelled from school, the students protest in demand of
her reinstatement. Even Vico, who has a reputation as a ‘bit of a slut’, is not painted as a
‘whore’ or prevented from being one of the most popular girls in school as a member of
‘Mia’s club.’ Vico can talk openly to her best friends about sex and has trouble
understanding why Mia is so unsure about sleeping with Miguel. When Mia finally decides
to have sex with her boyfriend, it is portrayed as a natural step in their relationship.
Similarly, Roberta’s sexual antics are not demonised when she attempts to seduce her
mother’s suitor with such lines as ‘Look, I’m not the little girl that you think I am, ok?’
Instead, her antics are framed as a part of growing up.
These characters are not forced to adhere to the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ or to
occupy the restrictive roles inherent to female mythification. Rather, they exist in those
‘interstitial’ spaces of transgression that are traditionally closed down as problematic sites
that threaten the established order. This applies to even those more archetypal antagonists
like Sabrina, who rivals Mia for Miguel’s love by fabricating rumours of sexual relations
and pregnancy. Although she is ultimately forced to leave the country by her father, this
stricture is lost in the extended narrative, multiple storylines and myriad rivalries between
the characters. As the daughter of Johnny Guzman, RBD’s manager, Sabrina’s presence is
secondary to the narrative surrounding the band’s struggles and ultimate success.
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Consequently the female rivalry between her and Mia exists as an adjunct to this more
pressing plotline.
Here female rivalry is destabilised as the source of narrative drive as quest for the band’s
success destabilises the romance plot. Furthermore, the focus on ensuring crossover success
for RBD into the ‘real’ world prevents Mia and Roberta from becoming true rivals within
the narrative. Thus telenovela lore may state that they cannot be rivals because they do not
share the same love interest. Mia loves Miguel and Roberta loves Diego. Yet following the
more pressing commercial logic, they do not share the same love interest because they are
both members of the same band, and neither within the ‘fictional’ nor ‘real world’, can
Roberta and Mia be rivals. To compromise the success of RBD through such rivalries
would be counter productive to the branding of the ‘rebelde concept’.
Furthermore, the fact that these female characters are equal members of RBD alters the
dynamic traditionally configured within the telenovela love story, whereby the protagonist
is legitimised through the love of the telenovela galán. Neither of these protagonists relies
upon the love of Miguel or Diego to legitimise their status.
Although the love stories between the members of the fictional band have fuelled RBD’s
‘real world’ success and have been used as a selling point throughout publicity and
performances, they exist as an adjunct to the central narrative of the pop group’s success.
Here, the existence of the band as central protagonist emulates Du Plessis’ emphasis on the
collective protagonist as a means of ‘writing beyond’ the prescriptive ending of the
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heterosexual love story. As the heterosexual couple is displaced as the ultimate
configuration of human interaction and consequently, the female protagonists are free to
transgress the parameters of ‘appropriate femininity’ within this new equation. As
international stars in their own right, ‘Mia’ and ‘Roberta’ can exist in those ‘interstitial’
sites of ‘appropriate’ femininity traditionally closed down by the Manichaean narrative.
Finally, the emphasis on friendship between the large group of school students continues
this notion of the collective protagonist as an alternative narrative drive. In addition to the
desire for the individual love stories to be consummated and for the pop group to succeed,
it is the desire for friendships to triumph, which creates new narrative equations. Friendship
is a recurrent theme throughout the novela, as Mia states; ‘above and beyond all of our
differences, the immense friendship that brings us together is the most important thing of
all’. This emphasis on friendship is evident within the platonic relationships that are formed
between the female and male members of the band, as well as the wider group of
classmates. These platonic male-female relationships are unprecedented within the
traditional formula, as tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ and female rivalry rule such
relationships out. Within each of these equations, narrative drive assists the move away
from the heterosexual love story as the only way of telling women’s lives.
The End…?
The ending of Rebelde confirms how the collective protagonist of this teen novela helps to
create an alternative configuration of ideal community upon narrative conclusion. Rather
than focus on the traditional white wedding or image of the happy family, Rebelde ends in
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the empty hallways of the ‘Elite Way School’, as the voices of various cast members
explain; ‘the most important thing that I learnt in those days was the value of friendship.
Those friends, for good or bad, at the best and worst of times.’ Only then do they include
‘And love, first love’. Yet this is only in passing, and the value of friendship is confirmed;
‘friends, it doesn’t matter how far away they are, they are always with me.’
Following tradition, the word ‘Fin’ (‘The End’) punctuates the end of the telenovela. Yet
true to Rebelde’s provocation, it morphs into a question mark. Here the sustainability of the
‘rebelde concept’ via the ongoing life of RBD beyond the telenovela’s ‘happy ending’ is
implied. Yet this question mark also symbolises Rebelde’s ability to ‘write beyond’ the
prescriptive ending of the traditional telenovela text. Within this ending, female citizenship
is not cemented within the mould of female mythification, as determined by the telenovela
galán. Rather, possibility lurks around the corners of the hallways for these students, with
the promise of a successful future beyond the tenets of marriage and maternity. Thus whilst
a traditional ending remains possible, as the teen protagonists pair off with their respective
galáns, it remains unwritten; constituting only one of many possibilities awaiting these
young rebels. As the parameters for ‘appropriate’ female citizenship opens up within
Rebelde’s commercial imperatives, the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) trumps the
‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56).
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Comic Relief
“Calm Down! Lower the tragedy. It’s not a six o’clock telenovela man. Enough already!”
— Fernando, La Fea más Bella
The comic tendencies resonant within the hit telenovela La Fea más Bella (‘The Most
Beautiful Ugly Girl’) illustrate another way in which telenovela subgenres can ‘write
beyond’ the exclusionary female citizenship of the Mexican telenovela. This occurs in
several ways throughout the narrative. As evidenced by Fernando’s words above, La Fea
más Bella’s rejection of the heavy melodrama typical of more traditional fare, paves the
way for the deft comic touch which provides both an alternative narrative drive. As the
desire to incite laughter takes over as narrative focus, it displaces the romantic narrative as
the story’s sole raison d’être. Within this comic equation, the seriousness of the traditional
formula is compromised; for although the ugly duckling narrative champions the
triumphant marriage of the protagonist to the telenovela galán, it is heavily warped by its
comic treatment. Specifically, by positing humour as an inversion of the traditional gender
norms, La Fea más Bella complicates the parameters of female mythification inherent to
the traditional form. Finally, La Fea más Bella’s phenomenal success, both nationally and
internationally, as well as the successive comic telenovela boom that it has spawned,
provides another example of the ways in which the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007,
65) can trump the ‘tyranny’ of the traditional plot.
As part of the ‘Ugly Betty franchise’, La Fea más Bella’s ratings ‘pedigree’ is more than
certified. Ratings success for the original Colombian version (Yo Soy Betty la fea, 1999)
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has occurred in over seventy countries, from Albania, China, Slovakia, Hungary, Indonesia,
Israel, Italy, Japan, Lithuania, Poland, The Czech Republic, Romania, Russia and
Yugoslavia, to the United States and throughout Latin America (Anon. 2006b, 7). Yet
global ‘Betty Mania’ has superseded the more rudimentary forms of localisation via
dubbing or subtitling, with the adaptation of what has now become the ‘Ugly Betty format’
in over twenty local versions to date, as evident in the following diagram;
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 38— ‘Ugly Betty’ around the world.
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Following this phenomenon, La Fea más Bella defied initial criticism about its validity as a
remake of a remake. From the outset the telenovela was a hit. Premiering in January 2006,
the telenovela smashed the customary 10-point ratings average for the 4pm timeslot, with
its 24-point debut. Executives capitalised on this success, twice rescheduling to six o’clock
in the evening where it debuted with 30 points, and later to prime time at eight o’clock at
night (Anon. 2006b, 93). Subsequently, La Fea más Bella’s extended narrative run was a
natural development of this commercial logic, finally ending on the twenty-fifth of
February 2007, after 270 hour long episodes and thirteen months on air. The public support
for this telenovela was rewarded by Televisa’s motorcade of the cast through the streets of
Monterrey. Ending in an open-air concert in which the cast and special guests sang for over
250 000 fans, scenes of the day’s festivities were included in the final episode (Anon.
2007a, n.p.).
With up to 48.3 ratings points in Monterrey, the final episode of La Fea más Bella reached
67% of the audience share to become the highest rating programme in Mexican television
history (Anon. 2007b, n.p.). Rating at a national level of 43.3 points, it loses only to the
1999 final of the Latin American Confederation Cup (Anon. 2007b, n.p.). This success
equated to more than half of Mexico’s population of 105 million sitting down to watch the
final fate of ‘the most beautiful ugly girl’ (Valdés Doria 2007, n.p.). Further to this phenomenon
was the final episode’s protracted length and unprecedented scheduling. At three hours and
twenty minutes in length, it was broadcast in the ultimate of prime time slots on a Sunday
evening. This made La Fea más Bella the longest episode in telenovela history and the first
telenovela programmed in this weekend prime-time slot (Anon 2007c, n.p.). This success
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was only intensified by its triumph over the live telecast of the 79th Academy Awards
Ceremony which gained only 9.5 ratings points, yet in which Mexican cinema was
nominated for a variety of awards including best motion picture, best achievement in
directing, best original screenplay and best foreign language film (Anon. 2007b, n.p).
Unsurprisingly, La Fea más Bella won the award for best Mexican telenovela of the year
(Gutiérrez Segura 2007, n.p.) yet its success was not limited to national borders. It was
billed as the highest rating Spanish-language program in US history, even beating programs
from key English speaking networks. According to Nielsen ratings reports, the final
episode of Univision’s La Fea Más Bella beat all five of the English-language broadcast
networks (Anon. 2007d, n.p.). Yet perhaps most indicative of the telenovela’s cultural
impact were the accusations in a federal election tribunal by the 2006 leftist presidential
candidate Andrés Manuel López Obrador that La Fea más Bella was biased in favour of his
opponent and the subsequent president elect, Felipe Calderon (Ramos and Castillo 2006,
n.p.).37 Beyond the courtroom, the national and geo-linguistic resonance of this telenovela
was reiterated when just days after its conclusion, executives programmed its
retransmission for two-hour blocks on Saturday afternoons.
Keen to capitalise on these phenomenal ratings, the reasons behind La Fea más Bella’s
success have been widely discussed throughout the industry. Some have argued that it is the
37
During the June 28th episode, a week before the July 2nd presidential vote, two characters discussed their
preference for Felipe Calderon as ‘el presidente del empleo’ (‘the president of employment’). Widely
interpreted by Obrador and his supporters as propaganda for the conservative candidate who was eventually
declared victor of the fraught elections by a margin of just 0.6%, this accusation was one among several made
by the leftist party that were unanimously dismissed by the election tribunal (Clemens 2006b, n.p.). The other
accusations of election fraud made by Obrador included the ‘unfair’ use of scare tactics comparing Obrador to
the ‘socialist’ Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, and the ‘subliminal’ messages sent by Pro-Calderon
businesses in their television commercials (Gutiérrez Vidrio 2007).
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‘ugly duckling’ story at its heart that inspires audiences around the world. As Marcela
Mejía explained, the telenovela dictates that ‘the protagonist has to be young, nineteen
to twenty-five years old, pretty, and helpless’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). In
comparison, ‘Lety from La Fea Más Bella is ugly, is not exactly young, but is smart
and very sensitive and these are unprecedented values not archetypal forms, which
people recognize’ (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
Ocampo explains that this atypical protagonist makes people realize that ‘you don’t need
to have a pretty face or shapely body to make it’ (Anon. 2006b, 7). As Emilio Larrosa,
Ocampo’s fellow producer at Televisa suggests ‘The fact that here is a disadvantaged and
ugly person who can find happiness in life with a good-looking and wealthy person, is — I
think — a hope we all have all throughout the World […] so I think that the success of this
novela comes down to that’ (Anon. n.d.e, n.p.).
Yet further to the telenovela’s ability to articulate represent the wider female audience it is
La Fea más Bella’s comic tendencies that are deemed key to its success. As Ocampo
explained, ‘The message is very clear [ …] the people don’t want to cry anymore and if
they do it is because something marvelous has happened, not something tragic’ (Anon.
n.d.f, n.p.). This ‘light’ treatment of melodrama tempers the typically tragic love story.
As telenovela/sitcom hybrid, La Fea más Bella has been described by Ocampo as
‘innovative and risky’ (Anon. 2007e, n.p.). The potential that the relationship between
comedy and melodrama has for ‘writing beyond’ an exclusionary narrative ending follows
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this innovation. Kathleen Rowe highlights this potential when suggesting that ‘romantic
comedy […] offers an alternative to the passive and suffering heroines of melodrama’
(Rowe 1995a, 56). Indeed, ‘unlike comedy, which addresses a more active spectator, these
forms position the spectator as powerless to avert the catastrophes they enact, and in fact
produce their tears out of that powerlessness’ (Rowe 1995, 40).
In this way, ‘melodrama not only teaches that a woman’s lot under patriarchy is to suffer,
but makes that suffering pleasurable’ (Rowe 1995a, 51). In comparison, romantic comedy
provides pleasure yet avoids what Rowe calls ‘the suffering femininity affirmed by
melodrama’ (Rowe 1995a, 41) by demanding ‘a place for women, in the narrative and in its
vision of a social order that is not only renewed but also, ideally, transformed’ (Rowe
1995a, 44). Mirroring the transgressive potential of rebelliousness in the teen genre, it is
comedy’s ‘assault on authority’ that facilitates this alternative configuration of femininity,
as evident through an understanding of laughter’s ability to create more inclusive versions
of community.
‘Laughter as Feminine Power’38
‘At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.’
— Jean Houston
The potential for laughter to ‘foster new and more inclusive images of community’ has long
been associated with the comic genre’s drive to ‘break taboos and express those impulses
38
Elsley J, 1992 “Laughter as Feminine Power in ‘The Color Purple’ and ‘A Question of Silence’” In New
Perspectives on Women and Comedy, ed. Regina Barreca. Gordon & Breach,Philadelphia, pp.193-199
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which are always outside social norms’ (Rowe 1995a, 56, 44). Indeed for Rowe, ‘almost all
comedic forms- from jokes to gags to slapstick routines to the most complex narrative
structures- attempt a liberation from authority’ (Rowe 1995, 44). Traditionally, this
antiauthoritarianism pits ‘youth’, as ‘the small, the petty and the powerless’, against ‘old
age’, as ‘authority, repression and the law’ (Rowe 1995, 44). Yet the transgressive tools
embodied within this confrontation are ‘also available to women […] to express aggression
and rage at the forces of the father’ (Rowe 1995a, 44) and consequently, to make way for
more egalitarian versions of community. Numerous feminist theorists have identified this
potential for gender equality through laughter. From Luce Irigaray’s suggestion in ‘This
Sex Which is not One’ (1985) that ‘laughter [is] the first form of liberation from a secular
oppression’ (Irigiray 1985, 163)39 to Helene Cixous’ notion in the ‘The Laugh of the
Medusa’ (1976) that laughter is conducive to a transgressive ‘woman’s space’, feminist
writers have long identified laughter as ‘a catalyst in women’s journey to selfempowerment’ (Elsley 1992, 193).
To trace the transformative potential of female laughter within the telenovela’s traditionally
patriarchal form, it is necessary to consider the role of excess. Here, it is comedy’s
celebration of excess that carnivalises sexual identities and gender hierarchies to create ‘a
more inclusive basis for community than the social order it takes as its point of reference’
(Rowe 1995a, 42).
39
As Irrigaray writes; ‘isn’t laughter the first form of liberation from a secular oppression?
Isn’t the phallic tantamount to the seriousness of meaning? Perhaps woman, and the sexual
relation, transcend it first in laughter? (Irigaray 1985, 163)
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A key member of this ‘carnival’ is the ‘female grotesque’. Embodying the notion of
carnivalesque excess, this ‘unruly’ woman signifies the inversion of gender norms through
her common status as ‘woman on top’. Constitutive of the ‘larger issues of social and
political order that come into play when what belongs ‘below’ […] usurps the position of
what belongs ‘above’’ (Rowe 1995, 76) this woman is seen as dangerous; for her
‘disobedience’ and defiance of social hierarchies and taboos.
Historically, the negative discourses that have surrounded such ‘excessive’ women
originate from her transgression of what Rowe calls the ‘unspoken feminine sanction
against ‘making a spectacle’ of herself’ (Rowe 1995b, 76). In particular, the notion of
spectacle manifests through her ‘appropriation of space’ such that being ‘grotesque’ equals
being ‘too fat’, ‘too ugly’, ‘too loose’, ‘too manly’, ‘too loud’, ‘too brusque’, ‘too frigid’,
‘too old’ and numerous other violations of the tropes of ‘appropriate femininity’. As Rowe
explains;
femininity is gauged by how little space women take up. […] In our culture both fatness
and looseness are violations of codes of feminine posture and behaviour. All women of ‘illrepute’ are described as loose, their bodies, especially their sexuality, seen as out of
control. […] Fat females are stigmatized as unfeminine, rebellious, and sexually deviant
(under or over-sexed) (Rowe 1995b, 79).
Challenging both the sincerity of heroic masculinity and its ‘appropriate’ female
counterpart, this ‘unruly’ femininity manifests within the active female desire of the
traditional telenovela antagonists. As such, the telenovela battle between female antagonist
and protagonist effectively articulates what Rowe calls ‘the conflict between female
unruliness and the ideology of ‘true womanhood’’ (Rowe 1995b, 75) but which is
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nominated here as ‘in/appropriate femininity’. Here the logic of the telenovela formula
equates the female antagonist’s punishment within these texts as a resolution of ‘the
ideological tension surrounding the “excessive” woman who “desire[s] too much”’ (Rowe
1995b, 41).
Importantly though, within comedies of ‘excess’, the unruly woman is celebrated. Indeed,
the carnivalesque inversion of gender norms endorsed within such comedies provides a
‘safe house’ for these women and a celebration of their transgressions. From a history of
female icons as diverse as Lucille Ball, Miss Piggy and Roseanne Barr (Rowe 1995b, 76)
the story of Lety, ‘the most beautiful ugly girl’, follows this celebration of the ‘unruly’
woman.
Laughing with the Most Humorous Ugly Girl
Leticia Padilla Solis is the ‘female grotesque’ who manifests ‘transgressive’, ‘unruly’
qualities. Especially evident when she takes up the position of the ‘woman on top’ as head
of production agency Conceptos, this power is nonetheless established from the
telenovela’s first sequence. Framing Lety from the perspective of others forced to cross her
path, this sequence confirms Lety’s monstrosity even before she is ever seen. As she enters
the gates of this exclusive community, the security guard crosses himself in shocked horror.
This is soon articulated when Luigi, the highly camp creative genius behind Conceptos’
success, gasps ‘Oh my God! What on earth is this? […] You do not belong here so please,
get out! You fail all of the requirements. Let’s go! Get out! Out! And don’t ever return.’
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Lety does not belong. When received in the interview room, the extent of her grotesqueness
is finally evident; she is seated next to her traditional counterpart; the magnificently
beautiful buxom blonde Alicia Ferreira, against whom she is competing for the position as
secretary. For despite her superb qualifications as an economist, her ugliness renders her
unemployable.
Throughout the narrative, Lety’s monstrosity is reiterated. She is labelled the ‘Queen of the
ugly women squad’; so ugly that ‘even her own gynaecologist wouldn’t undress her’, and
‘even her own boyfriend would hit her.’ From a ‘gargoyle’ and ‘monkey’ to ‘hairy street
food’, the attempts to define ‘Leticia “Pesadilla” (Nightmare) Solis’ are prevalent
throughout the novela, and are principally motivated by what is perceived to be her
transgression of the appropriate tropes of femininity. Indeed Lety takes up too much space.
Not only is she fat with a gratingly whiny voice, but her braces, acne, oily hair, frumpy
clothing and childish accessories further her ‘unruliness’ and marginalisation within this
community. In addition to the labels proffered to define her unruliness, Lety’s colleagues
try to literally tame her excessive use of space; by placing her in a tiny storage cupboard in
the guise of an office, she is effectively exiled; removed from view.
Conceptos president and telenovela galán Fernando most ruthlessly executes the treatment
of Lety as abject other. After a number of shady deals, which see Lety become the legal
owner of Conceptos, Fernando and his best friend Omar, hatch a plan. They figure that ‘a
chick as ugly as Lety would sell her soul to the devil as long as he’d perform the miracle of
finding her a husband.’ So by making Lety fall in love with Fernando, they figure that she
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will relinquish ownership of the company. Unaware that she has long been in love with
Fernando, their task is easier than expected. Assuring that ‘there is nothing happier than a
fat chick after making love’ Omar convinces Fernando to seal the deal by bedding Lety.
Their ruthlessness is a product of Lety’s position as the female grotesque. Even when
Marcia begins to suspect that her fiancé Fernando is having an affair, Lety’s ugliness
disqualifies her as a candidate; ‘A romance with Lety? No! It’s more likely that he’d be
gay. […] Fernando would fall in love with a guy before Leticia Padilla.’
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 39- Leticia Padilla Solis as the female grotesque, and the telenovela galán Fernando
Mendiola.
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Yet despite her rejection within the narrative, the comic nature of this telenovela champions
her transgressive state. The celebration of ugliness is evident from telenovela beginning,
with the lyrics to the hit song ‘The Ugly Women Club’ declaring ‘This club reserves the
right to admission, and to all of the beauties, it’s pure rejection. Ugly girls, ugly girls,
united in the fight. Pretty girls are few, uglies there’s a lot’. Here the inversion inherent to
the ‘comedy of excess’ finds humour in the contradiction between Lety’s status as a
protagonist and her transgression of the norms usually configured within this role. Thus
rather than laugh at her, as her colleagues do, it laughs with her, as both Lety and her
audience know that she is ugly and find humour in her situation. Consequently, rather than
discount her as a legitimate protagonist, this appreciation of Lety’s ugliness only serves to
highlight her humility and true ‘inner’ beauty.
This inclusive configuration of the female protagonist translates to the construction of a
more inclusive community. The portrayal of Conceptos as cruel and exclusionary contrasts
sharply with the fun and inclusive ‘Ugly Women Squad’ (‘El Cuartel de las Feas’).
Membership for this community includes those women whose various ‘assaults’ on the
tropes of appropriate femininity confirm their bond. Sara is ‘too tall’, ‘too toothy’, ‘too
butch’ and ‘too single.’ As a highly sexual single mother on the look out for Mr Right,
Paula Maria is ‘too loose’. Lola is ‘too bitter’ from her husband’s infidelities and
abandonment. For her insatiable appetite for junk food and gossip, Martha is ‘too fat’ and
‘too loose’. As the mother figure of the ‘squad’, Irmita is ‘too old’ and ‘too matronly’. As
the mystic fortune-teller who learnt the art from her grandmother, Juana is ‘too weird’.
Finally Lety is their self-declared ‘queen’— the ugliest of all.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 40- El Cuartel de las Feas; Juna, Irma, Paula
Figure 41- Alicia
Maria, Martha, Lola & Sara
Further to the endorsement of an alternative community of inappropriate femininity, these
women reappropriate the cruel taunts levelled at them. Their archenemy Alicia may call
them a ‘Bunch of apes’ and ‘mob from the ghetto’, but their ‘Ugly but United’ catchcry
illustrates the collective power generated by their transgression. Consequently, they are not
a minority within the world of Conceptos, but a strong force of resistance. For although
their positions as secretaries, receptionists, personal assistants and cleaners does not
provide them with any explicit authority, it is their collective flouting of the company’s
work ethic, their role as gossip mongers, and the ferocious friendship that unites this effort
against their critics, which secures their role within this community (Rivero 2003, 73).
Reminiscent of feminist theorist Luce Irigaray’s work on the power of a ‘feminine
language’, the shared laughter of these unruly women marks the creation of a more
inclusive community. Yet whether this unruliness is subject to the traditional closure of
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such sites of resistance requires closer consideration. An analysis of the characterisation
and narrative trajectory of key female figures is necessary to understand the ability for
comedy to transcend even the most apparently formulaic ending.
The Most Beautiful ‘Tidy’ Nation?
As fate would have it, Fernando falls in love with Lety’s true inner beauty and throughout
the narrative he attempts to convince her that she is the love of his life. Yet humiliated at
his betrayal, Lety cannot trust Fernando and seeks to forget him. She meets ‘Aldo from
Acapulco’, who falls in love with Leticia- braces, acne and all- and asks for her hand in
marriage. Lety accepts but cannot shrug her lingering feelings for Fernando. So after a
thrilling period of indecision, Lety finally tells Aldo that she cannot marry him and instead,
in a beautiful white wedding ceremony, marries the love of her life; the telenovela galán.
An initial reading of La Fea más Bella’s ending suggests an investment in resolving female
transgression through the reinstatement of ‘appropriate femininity’, including conventional
notions of beauty as well as romantic love and marriage. Indeed, Lety’s unruliness seems to
finally be contained by her legitimisation via the telenovela galán’s love. The values that
Fernando most admires in Lety are those that mark her as a traditional telenovela
protagonist; her honesty and unwavering loyalty to him. At one point when he compares
her to a dog, marveling that ‘she blindly obeys me’.
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Consolidating the eradication of Lety’s inappropriate femininity is her physical
transformation, in time for her white wedding and ‘happily ever after’. By narrative ending
Lety is no longer a fat, pimply, and greasy haired girl with braces. She has been
transformed, under the watchful gaze of Luigi who marvels;
Finally. At long last; my masterpiece. The perfect recreation of natural beauty. Now, yes,
Luigi Lombardi shall create the face of the most beautiful ugly girl […] Perfect, perfect;
ah, my queen, you look so beautiful, you look divine. And now Leticia Padilla Solis; can
you tell me what you will do now? Now that you have discovered yourself, now that you
have discovered your beauty […] will you be you now?
Lety’s humble reply confirms this transformation: ‘I want to be like this forever. Now I do
feel good about myself inside and out. I am happy with what I am, because I learnt that we
can all become beautiful.’
Confirming its importance, this transformation of ‘ugly Lety’ is pending throughout the
narrative and takes on increasing significance. Lety’s transformation was eagerly awaited
throughout its many months on air, as press surrounding the ‘event’ confirms; ‘Finally, the
long-awaited change of ‘Leticia Padilla Solis’ arrived and those made desperate by the wait
saw her transform from the most beautiful ugly girl to a gorgeous, modern young woman.
Just like you wanted her to!’ The fetishlike documentation of this process throughout the
popular press explains the trajectory of this passage of self discovery,40 before concluding
that ‘Yesterday, finally, “Luigi” presented his masterpiece: “Lety Padilla” transformed into
a modern woman, feeling good insight and out, winning over all and providing all of those
40
As one article raves; ‘the first change was when she turned up with an accessories laden look, the next in
Acapulco, when she showed off arms and legs, but her clothing was still outdated. A little later we saw a
change in personality; more self-assured, she took on the role of president of ‘Conceptos’; her eyebrows were
less bushy, the acne had cleared up but her tailored suits were still out of fashion. The big change came with
‘Aurora’, when with a look from the 1940s she made a big impression, but alas, several bought this decoy and
believed that it was the definitive change (Romero Corral 2007, n.p).
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who had anxiously waited for her to emerge, with an enormous sense of happiness’
(Romero Corral 2007, n.p).
The conditional temporality of Lety’s transgression mirrors the dynamic so resonant within
the traditional Mexican telenovela text, in which the female protagonist temporarily ‘loses
her way’, through her expression of traditionally antagonistic character traits. In the same
way that these transgressive sites are closed down so too does Lety’s transgression as an
ugly/unruly woman seem resolved. In this way, the comic subgenre’s potential to present
more egalitarian versions of community appears undermined.
It is hard not to read Lety’s transformation as anything but recourse to traditional
configuration of the race, class and gender parameters of the ‘tidy nation’. To begin, when
Lety’s ‘true beauty’ is finally revealed at telenovela end, and the message that ‘we can all
become beautiful’ is imparted before a range of strategically placed brand name beauty
products, the race and class prerequisites surrounding admission into this ‘tidy’ national
community become all the more explicit. Here, the dichotomy between beauty and ugliness
moves beyond facial hair and acne.
As Yeidy Rivero’s work on the original Colombian version of the telenovela suggests, ‘the
narrative’s aesthetic divisions centred around class and […] reflected Eurocentric racial and
patriarchal discourses of what is generally considered “beautiful” or “ugly” in Colombia
and other Latin American cultures’ (Rivero 2003, 71). Consequently, Lety’s ascension from
the lower middle class Padilla Solis family to the echelons of the elite Mendiola family
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involves the acquisition of cultural capital via ‘beauty’ that reflects what Rivero calls those
‘Eurocentric, patriarchal, racial, Western/Christianized ideologies of primitivism/
civilization and class’ (Rivero 2003, 68).
Within this narrative of the ‘ugly as the ‘popular’ classes, Lety is ugly because not just
because of her appearance, but because of her socio-economic origins. In the same way that
she and her fellow members of the ‘ugly women squad’ are ‘too tall’, ‘too fat’, ‘too old’,
and ‘too sexual’; they are ‘in sum, too lower class’ (Rivero 2003, 70). Thus Lety’s
transformation incorporates the abandonment of the physical traits associated with her
working class roots and the simultaneous acquisition and performance of bourgeois ‘good
taste.’ Accordingly by narrative end her issues with personal hygiene have disappeared, as
have the hunched physique, grating voice and irritating laugh. Lety is no longer a
‘gargoyle’, ‘monkey’ or ‘hairy street food.’ In her place is a woman whose clothing and
communication skills showcase the ‘good taste’ imparted to her from such trained
specialists as Luigi. Yet the meta-narrative of ‘tidy’ nation-construction posits the most
crucial element to Lety’s acquisition of beauty as the ‘lightening’ of her appearance.
Complying with those racial parameters of ‘whiteness’ that resonate within the majority of
Mexican telenovela ‘casting’, Lety’s hair and skin lighten in tone, and she is finally, truly
‘beautiful.’41
41
This is well articulated by María Isabel Belausteguigoitia Rius, the director of the Women’s Studies
Department at Mexico’s largest public university la UNAM. Describing the ‘popular’ response to Lety’s
transformation she said ‘my mother’s servant, the cook, […] when [Lety] transforms and whitens; [her answer
was] “Wow! She’s not a darky anymore!” She’s not black anymore or brown, right?’ (2007, pers. comm., 6
February).
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 42 -43— Lety ‘Before’ and ‘After’
Finally, this very temporary status of Lety’s unruliness appears to damage the potential for
the ‘comedy of excess’ to create a more permanently inclusive community of female
citizens. Feminist theorists argue that a key tenet for such comedy to successfully open up
new spaces of female subjectivity and self-empowerment is the permanent configuration of
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such transgressive communities. As Judy Little explains;
comedy in which the liminal elements are never resolved, comedy which implies, or
perhaps even advocates, a permanently inverted world, a radical reordering of social
structures, a real rather than temporary and merely playful redefinition of sex identity, a
relentless mocking of truths otherwise taken to be self-evident or even sacred — such
comedy can well be called subversive, revolutionary, or renegade (Little 1983, 2).
In this way, ‘certain forms of comedy can invert the world not only briefly but
permanently; can strip away the dignity and complacency of powerful figures only to refuse
to hand them back these attributes when the allotted time for “carnival” is finished’
(Barreca 1992, 6). As Barreca continues; ‘Comedy can effectively channel anger and
rebellion by first making them appear to be acceptable and temporary phenomena, no doubt
to be purged by laughter; and then by harnessing the released energies, rather than
dispersing them’ (Barreca 1992, 6). Such a ‘strong, rebellious humor empowers women to
examine how we have been objectified and fetishized and to what extent we have been led
to perpetuate this objectification’ (Merrill 1988a, 279). It is ‘this kind of comedy [that]
terrifies those who hold order dear’ (Barreca 1992, 7). Yet it would appear that the comedy
configured within La Fea más Bella is not one of these.
La Fea más Bella’s humour and celebration of transgressive elements seem incidental. It
does not appear to address the cultural construction of gender at any critical level nor to
endorse the creation of new versions of community, despite its endorsement of the ‘ugly’
protagonist and the collective unity of the ‘ugly women squad’. Consequently, it appears to
be laughing at, not with, the transgressive female protagonist. The increasing presence of
melodrama throughout the narrative seems to confirm this.
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As Lety’s trajectory becomes increasingly focused upon her relationship with Fernando, so
too does the narrative’s melodramatic tone. One critic of the Colombian version explains
this trajectory, suggesting that ‘Of course the humour […] in accordance with the plot’s
focus on the relationship […] gets less and less’ (Ulchur Collazos 2000, n.p.). Thus Lety’s
ultimate ascension as the telenovela galán’s wife is not only accompanied by her physical
and emotional transformation, but also the melodramatic tone. Here the relationship
between melodrama and ‘appropriate femininity’ augurs the apparent recourse to tradition
within this narrative and rather than a ‘comedy of excess’, La Fea Más Bella produces a
‘Cinderella with excesses’. As Cuauhtémoc Blanco reasoned;
[Lety is] a Cinderella with excesses, but nonetheless that: it is a "Cinderella" and even if
they are modifying the plot and filling it with apparent novelties, its essence is the same. It
is dancing to the same song and the same "song" is called morality and that "morality" has
very deep patriarchal traits that are quite recognisable at least in our part of the world
(2007, pers. comm., 17 January).
However, the heterosexual couple standing at the altar upon telenovela conclusion is not as
prescriptive as it may seem. Despite recourse to traditional configurations of race, class and
femininity within the imagined national space of La Fea más Bella, a closer look at the
comedy of inversion within the narrative, as well as the dynamics of female rivalry,
complicates this picture. Although love may be how the story of Lety’s life is told, it does
not necessarily translate to an exclusionary tale of femininity, or submission to phallic
supremacy. Nor does it deny those alternative configurations of female relationships that
are celebrated within the narrative. Within the conventional structures of telenovela fiction,
there is great potential for ‘rewriting’ the story from the ‘inside-out.’
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The Comedy of Inversion
Despite Lety’s marriage to a man who humiliated and abused her, there is much more to
this white wedding that traditional would tell. Neither Fernando’s masculinity is not left
intact nor Lety’s femininity made to order. Where the comedy of excess provides an
important but nonetheless transitory narrative arc within La Fea más Bella, more
permanent alterations of the telenovela formula are made through the comedy of
inversion’s designation of humour as the inversion of gender norms. Here, humour abounds
in Lety’s appropriation of the power traditionally afforded the telenovela galán, as well as
his emasculation via relegation to the space she once occupied. This shifting power
dynamic is literally played out when Lety emerges from the storage room office and
Fernando takes her place. The humour configured within the image of a traditionally
powerless figure giving orders from behind the customary oak desk is accompanied by the
figure of the galán scurrying into his ‘closet.’
As the ‘woman on top’, Lety controls the narrative in a way previously denied her. Yet
unlike her traditional female counterparts, this narrative weight is not based exclusively on
her role within the heterosexual love equation. Lety’s role as Conceptos president entails a
newfound power exceeding that of the female love interest. She becomes the source of
phallic power, which determines the viability not only of Conceptos, but also the telenovela
galán. This inversion of the gender norms affords Lety access to the active gaze.
Appropriating the galán’s authority to legitimise one form of femininity over another,
Lety’s active desire sees her fall in love with two men before deciding between them.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 44— Lety desires both Fernando and Aldo
In response to this gender inversion, Fernando begins to embody those female
characteristics usually configured within those women rivalling for the galán’s love. His
plan to seduce Lety in order to reappropriate his power mirrors the tactics of the telenovela
antagonist. Yet his plans go awry, as he follows the protagonist’s path and falls desperately
in love. Here Fernando’s status as the galán is further emasculated, as he waits; at the
disposal of Lety’s desire. Taking up the diary writing begun by a lovesick Lety, his
documentation of a broken heart mirrors the more passive role usually afforded his female
love interest. Only after Lety falls in love with Aldo does she finally legitimise Fernando’s
place beside her.
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The comedy inherent to this inversion invests in the emasculation of the telenovela galán.
Fernando is subject to an almost ritualistic humiliation — professionally, personally and
sexually — which effectively serves as a punishment of the exclusionary tactics deployed
by the hegemonic patriarchal order. Unlike the narrative’s endorsement of Lety’s
empowerment, Fernando is ridiculed throughout for his vulnerable ‘feminine’ traits. This is
perhaps best articulated when he loses a bet to Luigi and is initiated as a drag queen named
Lily. With shaved legs, plucked eyebrows, heavy makeup, bright pink wig, towering heels,
and floor length gown, Fernando’s masculinity is belittled as a sea of drag queens chant
‘Lily for queen of the gays!’ Such mocking of the telenovela galán’s masculinity is
exacerbated by Fernando’s characterisation as neurotic and insecure. Unlike the ruggedly
masculine calm of Aldo, whose affinity with the ocean and good food and wine, paint him
as the ideal telenovela galán, humour is found in the figure of the ‘anti galán’.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 45— Fernando as ‘Lily the Queen of the Gays’
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Consequently, the position of the ‘woman on top’ is firmly established. For although Lety’s
narrative trajectory ends in marriage to the telenovela galán, this position is not closed
down. Rather, these spaces for female empowerment are handed down to other women.
When Leticia returns the presidency to Fernando, he acknowledges his inability to run the
company and nominates Marcia as president of Conceptos; the same business that she once
warned Lety was misogynist. Similarly, the marriage of Lety and Fernando does not so
much pay homage to the established order of patriarchal hegemonic tradition, but rather
signals a new equation. As Rowe, quoting Laura Mulvey suggests, ‘the triumph of the Law
of the Father represented in narrative isn’t always absolute. Especially during times of
social transformation, and especially in the genres of laughter, narratives can reabsorb “the
abnormal back into a sense of an order that is altered”’ (Mulvey in Rowe 1995b, 107).
Clearly this inversion of gender roles through the comic figure of the ‘woman on top’ and
the ‘man down below’ opens up the types of femininity permissible within this ‘altered’
community and the heterosexual couple that it champions.
This carnivalesque community also alters the types of female relationships allowed within
this world. Neither female rivalry nor dichotomous characterisation marks female
characterisation within this narrative. Unlike the essentialised women within the more
traditional telenovela text, La Fea más Bella’s comic tones find humour in those
transgressive women whose contradictions fuel their appeal. Consequently, female
transgression does not lead to ostracism, punishment or exclusion from the community.
Rather the comic nature of the narrative revels in their inversions, transgressions and
‘mistakes.’ It finds humour in their petty rivalries yet compassion in their contradictions.
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Palmira Olguín, the writer responsible for adapting La Fea más Bella from the original
explained that ‘the characters are created so wonderfully that it isn’t necessary to have great
villains in order to create conflict’ (Olguín in Anon. 2006b, 95). Specifically, it is the
humour here that creates such characters, giving them the scope to transgress through its
accommodating tone. Thus characters that display such excessive antagonism within the
narrative, are brought back into the fold of the telenovela community at narrative end. The
female rivalry framed within this telenovela is thus compromised as the would-be
essentialist antagonists are tempered with humour, and so emphasise the ridiculousness of
such Manichaean characterisation. Within this equation, even enemies can appreciate the
complexity of their female counterpart, as Lola considers her ‘enemy’ Alicia; ‘sometimes
her life makes me feel so sad and poignant’ (Anon. 2006b, 37).
Most crucially within this new world, even those female characters in competition for the
telenovela galán’s love defy tradition. Initially Marcia resents the devastating effect that
Lety’s arrival at Conceptos has had on her professional and private life. Yet her apparent
antagonism is not unwarranted, as Lety’s affair with Marcia’s fiancé Fernando, and
suspiciously speedy assumption of the Conceptos presidency are particularly antagonistic
themself. This narrative equation complicates the traditional female dichotomy, in two key
ways. Lety’s status as the protagonist does not match her sexual relations with an affianced
man, or her inability to choose between two men. It is even further compromised by her
status as a non-virgin before the narrative even begins. Complicating the traditional formula
further, Lety’s mistakes are met with Marcia’s ability to forgive her behaviour, and see her
for the genuine and kind person that she is. By telenovela end, the rivalry between Lety and
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Marcia has been resolved; not by the exile of one of these women but through
comprehension and compassion.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 46- M arcia as Lety’s would-be rival
The ideal community configured upon narrative conclusion has room for such transgressive
female behaviour. Here, La Fea más Bella does not discriminate between ‘appropriate’
forms of femininity. By telenovela conclusion, citizenship is afforded all of these women,
whose comic tendencies provide a relief to the traditional configuration of ‘appropriate’ and
‘inappropriate’ femininity within the narrative. Indicative of the truly inclusive
configuration of female citizenship within this comic line-up, there is nothing ‘routine’
about the similarly ‘happy ending’ for Lety, and the variety of women she befriends.
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‘Writing Beyond’ with the Telenovela Subgenre
Just as the ‘rebel leitmotiv’ opens up new spaces for female characterisation and citizenship
within the teen telenovela Rebelde, the comedy within La Fea más Bella serves to indulge
those transgressive female characterisations found within Lety and her colleagues. Here,
the rebellion and laughter within these narratives provide a means through which gender
roles, female rivalry and dichotomous characterisation are challenged, and a more inclusive
community is formed. Facilitated by these specific narrative ‘themes’ that ‘have nothing to
do with our accepted gender roles’ (Russ 1995, 90) there are various ‘strategies’ evident
within these telenovelas which assist in the ‘writing beyond’ of the heterosexual love story
and the exclusionary female characterisation and citizenship that it traditionally affords.
Amongst these are;
1. The focus on an alternative narrative drive beyond the heterosexual love story,
which sees Rebelde’s teens strive for the success of their pop band rather than solely
the union of protagonist and galán.
2. The move away from female rivalry for the love of the telenovela galán as a
principal means of narrative drive. This is facilitated by La Fea más Bella’s
investment in unruly women, as well as Rebelde’s alternative narrative focus of
securing the band’s cross over success.
3. The collective protagonist, which destabilises the centrality of the heterosexual
couple within the narrative, as evident with the RBD pop group and the ‘ugly
women squad’, thereby facilitating strategies 1 and 2.
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4. The investment in friendship, which opens up alternative relations between both
women and men, as facilitated by the pop group and school ties of Rebelde and the
laughter within La Fea más Bella, also facilitating strategies 1 and 2.
Securing this new equation, the phenomenal popularity of each of these telenovelas
provides a principal means through which the telenovela subgenre can ‘write beyond’ the
traditional telenovela formula for characterisation and citizenship. Indicative of this ability
for the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) to trump the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du
Plessis 1985, 56), telenovela executives have since capitalised on the success of La Fea
más Bella through the production of several comic narratives including Yo Amo a Juan
Querendon (‘I Love Loveable Juan’ Televisa 2007), Las Tontas no Van al Cielo (‘Dumb
Women Don't Go to Heaven’ Televisa 2008), Un Gancho al Corazon (‘A Hook to the
Heart’ Televisa 2008) and Hasta Que El Dinero Nos Separe (‘’Til Cash Do us Part’
Televisa 2009).
Yet such possibilities ‘beyond’ the traditional formula are not themselves exclusionary. The
following final analysis considers where these narrative ‘strategies’, linked to the inherently
commercial nature of the Mexican telenovela industry, follow within telenovelas that do
not subscribe to any distinct subgenre. Indeed, in line with the ‘spiral-like’ nature of
Mexican telenovela history, trends such as the popularity of the comic subgenre within the
latter half of the ‘noughties’ are unlikely to last, with a reversion to the more traditional
telenovela love story to follow. As such, an analysis of non subgenre specific fare posits
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increased cast size and narrative extension as two more general ways in which producers
may both create and capitalise on successful ratings, to the detriment of the traditional plot.
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Chapter Seven
The Melodramatic Downfall:
‘Disturbing’ the Narrative Formula in
the ‘Telenovela de Alteración’
Chapter Seven: The Melodramatic Downfall: ‘Disturbing’ the Narrative Formula in thelenovela de alteración’
‘They've got to learn that extending a novela is a bad, bad thing, and hey, let's
call a moratorium on crazy characters, okay?’
— Robin N @Telenovela-world.com
This chapter seeks to negotiate the limitations posed by the equation of Manichaean
melodrama with the commercially viable genre of the Mexican telenovela industry. Indeed,
the failure for both the traditional and de ruptura texts surveyed to break with traditional
versions of the nation and female citizenship via the adherence to the Manichaean
melodramatic formula motivates the search to identify those texts which do not fail. By
identifying those telenovelas that seem to ‘rupture’ the textual form itself, this chapter
proposes an original telenovela type; the telenovela de alteración or telenovela of
‘disturbance’, named so after the ability to ‘disturb’ the narrative form itself.
The inherent value of identifying this new category is its pervasiveness and prospective
longevity. For although the nature of the genre is itself fluid and transitory, as evident in the
many interconnected subgenres and trends spawned throughout its fifty-year history, the
telenovela de alteración is not just another developing varietal of storytelling tropes.
Rather, it flags a different type of telenovela phenomenon, external to narrative type. This
classification riffs on the notion of a common external force shaping these two supposedly
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opposing telenovela types, reflecting an increasingly powerful overarching commercial
logic that affects telenovela genres, irrespective of their particular ‘rose-tinted’ or
‘rupturous’ aesthetic equation. Serving as a ‘meta’ classification mode, the telenovela de
alteración positions rosa and de ruptura telenovelas not in opposition, but as subjects of
the same industry conditions, and with the same scope for subverting the genre’s narrative
schema, from within.
Importantly here, this new ‘type’ of telenovela does not seek to ‘break’ with traditional
narrative forms, as did the telenovela de ruptura movement. Ironically, it follows the same
commercial logic that saw the ‘demise’ in the telenovela de ruptura’s production, due to its
purportedly ‘limited’ commercial viability, and manages to ‘break’ the traditional
schematic strictures. As such, the ‘incidental’ ruptures that occur within this newly defined
telenovela category are arguably more sustainable from a production perspective, because
the ‘disturbances’ that they make are themself commercially motivated. Therefore,
identifying this classification mode is useful for completing the picture with regard to the
telenovela rosa and telenovela de ruptura continuum, with the potential to render their
supposed distinctions void.
Before outlining how these ruptures occur, it is important to understand the significance of
this new telenovela term in signifying the numerous ways in which ‘disturbing’ the
narrative form can disturb the ‘tyranny’ of the traditional plot. In accordance with the
definition of the Spanish term ‘alteración’, the telenovela de alteración first signifies the
‘disturbance’ of order or routine, and thus symbolises an upsetting of the traditional
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Manichaean melodramatic telenovela form. Yet it also signifies the ‘disturbance’ of public
peace or the status quo, which can be interpreted as a potential ‘disturbance’ of the ‘type’ of
nation and female citizenship configured through the execution of this prescriptive
narrative form. Indeed, within this ‘disturbance’ of form, the ‘tidy’ nation and its
exclusionary female citizenship can be disordered.
Following this logic, the term signifies the ‘disturbance’ of a state of being, of agitation,
shock or excitement. In this way it represents the potential for a ‘disturbed’ state of being
within those transgressive female characters traditionally labeled as the ‘loca’. Ultimately,
the potential that this ‘crazed’ state has for ‘disturbing’ the traditionally ‘tidy’
configurations of the nation, its female characters and their prospective citizenship are
harnessed within this term.
Exactly how the ‘disturbance’ of the Manichaean melodramatic form can occur, and effect
a revision of the nation, female characterisation and citizenship, is considered in relation to
the ultimately commercial logic of the Mexican telenovela industry. Within the telenovela
de alteración, both the casting of multiple protagonists in order to increase the potential
appeal of the narrative, and the narrative extension of successful telenovelas are deemed
true to the commercial logic of the industry, yet responsible for the (incidental)
‘disturbance’ of the narrative form and its generic configurations. Indeed, Marcela Citterio,
one of the original writers of Amor en Custodia explained; ‘the key for me was that there
was more than one central couple. When there are so many stories, at least one has to
appeal’ (Anon. 2005, n.p.). The casting of two protagonists within this narrative is not
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evidently related to a desire to ‘revise’ the genre and its limitations. Yet nonetheless, it
facilitates the ability to experiment with protagonists that appeal to various demographics,
rather than those that adhere to a narrative formula.
Similarly, the commercial logic motivating narrative extension leads to ‘incidental’
disturbance of the narrative formula. Described as the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ by Manuel de
Jesús Corral Corral (Corral 2007, 65), this concept has been used in Chapter Six to identify
the ways in which the quest to capitalise on a successful formula sees an investment in
subgenres to satisfy niche markets and national mood. Yet writing on Amor en Custodia,
Corral identified this ‘unbridled commercialism’ as indicative of a ‘lack of respect for the
televisual public’ through the sacrifice of narrative coherence via narrative extension
(Corral 2007, 4). Here, ‘the ultimate explanation for this weakening of both the plot and the
actor’s performances, can be found in the predominance of the economic interests that
come into play upon the show’s transmission’ (Corral 2007, 4).
However it is exactly the ability for such commercialisation to ‘disturb’ the ‘tidy’ execution
of the plot that challenges the traditional formula. Indeed, it is the existence of many
characters and subplots, as well as the extension of episode runs due to popularity, which
invariably ‘weigh down’ the formula responsible for the tightly strung telenovela formula.
Unlike the ultimately Manichaean formula found in both the traditional mode and the
telenovela de ruptura, the ‘out of shape’ telenovelas that result from ‘unbridled
commercialism’ present opportunities for a more permanently transgressive female
characterisation. With more narrative space to fill, storylines and character trajectories
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become increasingly convoluted. In a bid to maintain audience interest and high ratings,
character transgressions become increasingly transgressive and ‘unruly’ existence is
routine. The possibility of a more inclusive female citizenship within these narratives
follows.
This chapter thus engages with these telenovelas de alteración, by exploring the ways in
which they ‘disturb’ not only the Manichaean melodramatic narrative form but also its
ability to construct a ‘tidy’ version of the nation and the female citizenship that it affords.
This ‘disturbance’ is explored in the popular telenovelas Tres Mujeres (‘Three Women’
Televisa 2000) and Amor en Custodia (‘Love in Custody’ TV Azteca 2006). Chosen for
their casting of multiple protagonists and extended narrative length, these telenovelas
effectively ‘disturb’ the execution of the Manichaean trajectory through their ‘weighing
down’ of the traditional formula.
Evidence of this ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) trumping the ‘tyranny of the
plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56) can be found with the inclusion of fan comments posted on the
TelenovelaWorld forum.42 The comments posted in online forums give an indication of
audience reactions to the developing themes, characters and narrative structure of Tres
Mujeres and Amor en Custodia. They also show the audience’s feelings about conventional
telenovela plots and thereby assist an analysis of how these two narratives differ from more
traditional telenovela fare. Often struggling to align the female characters within the
traditional configurations of the telenovela formula, the inclusion of these comments
42
From this Online Forum (<http://www.telenovela-world.com/>), the Tres Mujeres sub forum
(<http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/list.php?f=8>) and the Amor en Custodia sub forum
(<http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/list.php?f=337>) are referenced throughout the chapter.
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confirms the ability for multiple protagonists and narrative extension to alter the traditional
formula.
“Three Women’s a Crowd”
‘It is not always how they portray it to be: they got married and lived happily ever after, like in
the telenovela’
—Renata, Tres Mujeres
Tres Mujeres tells the story of three generations of women from the wealthy Uriarte family.
Greta is the wife of a wealthy businessman Gonzalo and the mother of Bárbara, Fátima and
Santiago. Bárbara is the wife of Mario and the mother of a young daughter Montserrat.
Fátima is engaged to marry Adrian, an up and coming businessman. Yet the seeming
perfection of their lives betrays the complexities beyond the happy ending and its
traditional schema of love, virginity, marriage and maternity…
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 47- Tres M ujeres’ Barbara, Greta and Fatima
Greta harbours a deep longing for her teenage sweetheart Federico and a deep resentment
for the man who took her as his wife. Upon her husband’s death she is ready to move on
with her life. The reappearance of Federico after so many years seems to fulfill her destiny
yet he is uninterested and unavailable. She becomes obsessed, competing with Federico’s
partner Renata for his love. This obsession leads to violence, culminating in several
attempts on Renata’s life including a hit and run. In Greta’s ‘crazed’ state she renounces her
children and manipulates the truth about her children’s paternity in an attempt to win over
Federico’s love. When Greta finally accepts Federico’s rejection, she makes peace with her
past and moves on with a new love, Frank. Despite cheating allegations against Frank and
accusations that he is a ‘gigolo’, Greta embraces her new life, and learns to provide the
support that her children always sought from her.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 48- Greta in one of several attempts to murder Renata
The facade of Bárbara’s ‘perfect’ marriage begins to crack when her desire for a second
child goes unrequited. Upon meeting her husband’s cousin Daniel, she is forced to reassess
her life. Barbara soon falls for Daniel and despite carrying her husband’s child she seeks a
divorce. Yet Barbara’s new marriage quickly turns sour from Daniel’s lack of paternal
instinct and cheating ways. She quickly finds comfort in Manuel, yet Manuel’s obsessive
ex-girlfriend Yamile, who convinces Bárbara that he has been unfaithful, threatens this
newest relationship. Bárbara becomes disenchanted with love upon the breakdown of so
many relationships. She denounces love and decides to focus on motherhood and financial
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independence. Yet she cannot find happiness and on her deathbed, after being stabbed by
Yamile, she laments that she could never be happy with her one true love.
Fátima’s obsessively jealous and often violent fiancé Adrian is not the man she thought him
to be after he forces himself on her several times. Fátima desires independence and respect
and she soon abandons her engagement, after falling for Sebastian. Despite Adrian’s
attempts at sabotage, her mother and sister’s ill wishes, and Sebastian’s numerous admirers,
Fátima fights for her new love. Yet when Sebastian goes missing and is presumed dead,
Fátima falls in love with Ramiro, the handsome doctor who diagnosed her breast cancer.
They elope and when Sebastian ‘returns from the dead’, she must decide who she truly
loves. Her pregnancy to Ramiro temporarily decides her fate yet when she miscarries, she
reconsiders. However female rivals such as Sebastian’s ex-girlfriend Brenda steps in her
way. In conjunction with Brenda’s attempts on Fatima’s life, her rape by Leonardo seems
destined to prevent her union with Sebastian. Yet she becomes stronger and follows
Sebastian to Canada, where they kiss at Niagara Falls, as the telenovela concludes.
Following the convoluted trajectories of these three women, Tres Mujeres complicates the
Cinderella formula in several key ways. To begin, it follows attempts to ‘rupture’ the
traditional schema, by distancing itself from the traditional formula. Writing such
comments as ‘One of the reasons I'm so excited about this novela is that I heard it dealt
with contemporary issues in a different way from the average novela cinderella [sic] story’
(Lupita, 16 September 1999) viewers discussed the appeal of this approach within the
online forum TelenovelaWorld. Others quipped that this telenovela portrays a place where
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‘the sensationalistic storylines, overly dramatic crying and over the top villians [sic] are not
present’ (isto, 22 November 2006) and where ‘people actually have jobs, and things to do’
and don’t ‘live off the magic of novela land’ (Alexis, 28 May 2006).
Furthermore, following the logic of Mirada de Mujer, Tres Mujeres attempts to open up the
age and sexual mores surrounding female characterisation. Indeed, like Maria Inés these
women are complicated protagonists, whose lives do not comply with the ‘appropriate’
trajectory of correct femininity found within the protagonists of the traditional telenovela
schema. The inclusion of a sexually active older woman; of protagonists who compromise
the polarities of the virgin/whore dichotomy; and the treatment of these existences as more
than temporary sites of transgression for melodramatic effect, reflect this similarity.
However Tres Mujeres differs considerably from the telenovela de ruptura in several key
ways and it is in these ways that Tres Mujeres can be categorised as a telenovela de
alteración in its ability to rupture the traditional schema whilst following commercial logic.
To begin, the characterisation of the female protagonists within Tres Mujeres is more
complex and contradictory according to the still relatively Manichaean representation of
female identity found within Mirada de Mujer. The protagonist Maria Inés is inherently
‘good’. Despite her ‘transgressions’, ‘goodness’ radiates from Maria Inés throughout the
telenovela. Her grace, dignity and generosity indicate her alliance with the Virginal figure
throughout. Whilst she may already have ‘fucked’ (in the words of producer Hernán Vera)
(2007, pers. comm., 22 January), she is the figurative Virgin, a beacon of integrity, altruism
and abnegation not unlike the Virgin mother herself. Maria Inés’ personal rejection as a
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candidate for romantic love with a younger man sees her embody the asexuality of the
Virgin figure more so than any nubile young protagonist could.
The protagonists within Tres Mujeres complicate the inherent ‘goodness’ found at the heart
of the telenovela protagonist. The myriad transgressions of ‘appropriate’ femininity found
within the three protagonists’ relationship to love, virginity, marriage, maternity, personal
agency, knowledge and female rivalry, complicate the role of the protagonist as
traditionally configured. Such are the transgressions of the female protagonists that they
often resemble the antagonist figure. In fact, their behaviour incorporates some of those
most despised characteristics within the antagonistic figure of the telenovela’s bad woman.
In addition to their transgression of the norms of love, virginity, marriage and maternity,
these women exercise personal agency and at times instigate a female rivalry typical of the
antagonist figure.
Whilst none of the three female protagonists within Tres Mujeres emulates the impassive
suffering found within many traditional telenovela protagonists, it is Greta’s personal
agency which is most indicative of antagonistic prowess, as Federico tells her; ‘I can’t
believe that you are prepared to destroy everything, everything in your path to get what you
want.’ Throughout the narrative, Greta’s manipulation of knowledge to garner
empowerment exemplifies the measures she is willing to execute in order to win over her
galán’s love. Her vicious rivalry for Federico’s love sees her personal agency lead to
violence. As she storms Renata’s party and takes aim with her pistol, she is the true image
of a telenovela villain. In a full-length fur coat, sparkling jewels, a blond bouffant and
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glamorous make-up she references innumerous female villains before her. Greta’s crazed
antics contrast to Renata’s great composure and compassion, and in these scenes it is
difficult to read Greta as anything but the ‘Other’ woman to Renata as protagonist. As the
unloved woman in her battle for Federico’s love, her status as protagonist is compromised.
Facilitating this complication of the formula, and key to Tres Mujeres’ definition as a
telenovela de alteración is the narrative’s profound ‘disturbance’ of the Manichaean form
through the inclusion of multiple protagonists. The exponential effect this has both on the
cast and the narrative trajectory cannot be denied. Telenovela lore follows that for every
female protagonist there must be a female antagonist, who rivals for the male protagonist’s
affections. Tres Mujeres further complicates the equation as each of the three female
protagonists has several possible galáns and consequently several female rivals. This
tripling of the female protagonists enables female characterisation and citizenship to
become more ‘experimental’, and thereby to provide more ‘disturbance’ of traditional
configurations than those within the de ruptura narratives surveyed in Chapter Five.
The protracted length of the telenovela further confounds the possibility of maintaining a
strict Manichaean trajectory. Tres Mujeres aired in 1999-2000 on Televisa’s Canal 2 and
had its most recent rerun in the United States on Univision in 2007. As one of the most
successful and longest running Mexican telenovelas of the nineties, Tres Mujeres had an
original episode run of 160 half hour installments but was twice extended to a total of 220
hour long episodes, and thirteen months on air (Anon. 2004, n.p.). The success of this
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novela came as a shock to producers who had not anticipated such high ratings of up to 30
points in its five pm time slot (Morales Martínez 1999b, n.p.).
If Epigmenio Ibarra highlighted the need for melodrama in order to maintain audience
interest over the usual 120 episode run (2007, pers. comm., 9 February), the need within
Tres Mujeres is further compounded. Throughout the twice extended, year-long narrative
trajectory, plot and characterisation become increasingly convoluted. In this way, the
protracted nature of Tres Mujeres facilitates the ‘disturbance’ of the strict Manichaean
form. Consequently there is much room for transgression within the ‘good versus evil’
paradigm as the protagonists and antagonists oscillate between ‘good’ and ‘bad’
behaviours.
Following this confusion, these three women’s status as protagonists does not entail the
right to be loved, nor guarantee that that love is always true. It does not secure that
marriage lasts ‘til death do us part’ or that motherhood provides the ultimate fulfillment.
This can be seen initially with the basic telenovela tenet of a protagonist’s ‘right to be
loved’. Greta and Bárbara, though protagonists, are largely ‘unloved’ throughout the
telenovela. Greta’s pleading at Federico’s feet for him to love her and her eventual
marriage to an aging ‘gigolo’ indicates the sullied nature of love within this novela, far
from that espoused within the traditional formula. Similarly Bárbara’s tarnished love story
across three failed romances is testament to her status as the unloved. Time and again she is
confronted by betrayal and allegations of infidelity such that upon her deathbed she is
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alone, without love. Here her status as the unloved is all the more poignant as she gasps her
last breath; ‘I could never be happy with the love of my life.’
Even Fátima, arguably the central protagonist, who does end up with the galán Sebastian,
has an overly fraught relationship with love. In accordance with the trajectory of the
impossible love story, Fátima and Sebastian are subject to sabotage and misunderstandings
that tear them apart until the final scene where they are united underneath the words Fin
(The End). However her protracted love story is a complex repudiation of the existence of a
fairytale true love. Beyond the undulations of her relationship with Sebastian, it is
Fernando’s love for Ramiro that disturbs the formula.
To begin, Fátima’s decision to forget Sebastian in order to ‘live life in the present’ by
marrying Ramiro derails the traditional promise of eternal happiness through suffering and
sacrifice. Yet more profoundly it clashes with the traditional narrative formula of one true
love when Sebastian later reappears. Indeed Fátima cannot decide who to choose, as she
tells Greta ‘I love both of them. They are both wonderful men.’ Whilst such honesty is
beyond reproach, the love between Fátima and Sebastian hardly fits the fairytale mould.
The corruption of fantasy within Tres Mujeres continues within the ranks of marriage.
None of the protagonists have a successful relationship with this traditionally sacred
institution. Even Fátima, the one woman whose narrative trajectory ends with a telenovela
galán, is cursed, as her mother complains after another thwarted marriage attempt;
‘something terrible always happens with Fátima at her wedding.’ Thus rather than
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symbolise the culmination of love’s triumph, marriage becomes another failed enterprise
for these women, a symbol of the failure for love to provide eternal happiness. As Renata
explains ‘living together, routine, monotony all take their toll on any relationship […] and
it can become a living hell.’
Furthermore, the sacred institution of motherhood is problematic for these three women,
without guarantee of eternal fulfillment as the ultimate tenet of ‘appropriate’ femininity.
Greta is a condemned mother for the majority of the telenovela. She is cruel, manipulative
and irrational, as Federico accuses ‘you are the most despicable mother that I know.’ Her
renunciation of motherhood confirms this transgression of telenovela lore, evident as she
shouts ‘I am not going to give my life up for a bunch of children that don’t know how to
appreciate my sacrifice! I’d rather be alone than put up with you.’
Bárbara’s execution of motherhood is similarly complex. From trouble with conceiving a
second child to feigning pregnancy, renouncing custody of her children and having her
womb removed, Bárbara is far from the image of the ideal mother so celebrated within the
traditional schema. So transgressive is her execution of ‘appropriate femininity’ that her
sexual desire remains unabated throughout her pregnancy, and pregnant to one man, she
passionately engages another.
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 49- Daniel, Barbara
Maria
Figure 50- Fatima & Ramiro
Figure 51- Fatima &
Sebastian
Fátima is not excluded from this state of ‘unnatural’ motherhood. She falls pregnant to
Ramiro, the man she later abandons after loosing the baby. Similarly, when she reunites
with Sebastian at telenovela end, there is no child to symbolise their union and her
fulfillment as a woman. There is not even a wedding with promises of maternity to come.
Consequently, there is no assurance that this union will last. Her trajectory into ‘happily
ever after’ remains unresolved.
In sum, all three protagonists are sexually transgressive. Yet it is Bárbara’s status as a
sexually active mother figure that is largely unprecedented within the telenovela cannon.
Most noticeably it is the image of a mother and pregnant woman cavorting with a man
other than the father of her children which is perhaps most unconventional. By sexualising
its protagonists Tres Mujeres complicates the parameters of ‘appropriate’ femininity.
Consequently, female sexuality within this narrative is not a taboo issue. In one key scene,
Renata explains the positives that can come from having sex before marriage; ‘it is very
important to get to know your man intimately. […] that is where you really realise what he
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is like. There are men that seem kind, gentlemanly and attentive but who are violent and
selfish in bed.’
By focusing on issues beyond the fairytale romance, Tres Mujeres exposes the negligence
of a strict dichotomy constructing female sexuality. This is most evident in the narrative
treatment of Fátima’s rape by Adrian. Tres Mujeres does not treat the rape as an
unfortunate and shameful situation, which is referred to as an ‘Elena’ (Tuly, 14 September
1999) by some viewers within the Tres Mujeres forum who allude to the telenovela Vivo
Por Elena. In this telenovela, the protagonist ‘feels she cannot have a relationship with
anyone else now because she's already "ruined" herself.’43 Rather, Tres Mujeres uses the
storyline to convey information regarding female sexual rights, which is reinforced by
Fátima’s decision to end her engagement with Adrian and move on with her life.
Audience Reactions to the ‘Transgressive’ Protagonist
Throughout Tres Mujeres viewers must continually negotiate the protagonists’ status as
transgressive women. Yet this new equation provided a dilemma for many viewers.
Struggling to determine the status of the protagonists in the face of their antagonism, one
viewer writing on the TelenovelaWorld forum explained;
I firmly believe that the audience must sympathize and like characters involved in a
romance to make it a successful storyline. And right now […] we need to feel more
empathy with the characters than we currently do. Something better change pretty quick
43
As the viewer comments state; ‘If she pulls an "Elena" (as in Vivo Por Elena) where she feels she cannot
have a relationship with anyone else now because she's alreadoy [sic] "ruined" herself? I don't care for those
types of storylines at all’ (Tuly, 14 September 1999). Another viewer responded; ‘I HATE when women do
that to themselves! I just hope it doesn't go in that direction, either. We need some strong women who are
secure and independent. Let's hope we find it here in Fátima’ (Charma, 14 September 1999).
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regarding Greta and Bárbara, because right now I despise them both (Connie C, 24
September 1999).
Many viewers found it hard to identify with such ‘unlikable’ characters, stating that ‘This
novela has more villains than heroes, and I fail to see why I should be at all interested in
what happens’ (dd, 31 October 1999). They took issue with the inconsistent nature of the
characters, arguing that ‘Mature adults don't fall in and out of love, they don't change from
good to bad and back again’ (dd, 2 November 1999). Yet others found the complexity of
the protagonists refreshing. Stating that ‘they act like real, complex people’, one viewer
applauded that ‘Nothing in this novela is cut and dry, black or white. A character can be
noble one day and an idiot the next. Say one thing and do another’ (Lupita, 1 November
1999). Indeed, ‘the complexity of human behaviour is surely brought out in this novela’
such that ‘No one is just a "villano" or an unbelievably good person in this novela.’ For this
viewer, ‘that's what keeps me coming back’ (Tuly, 1 November 1999).
Still other viewers commented on the ‘transgressions’ of particular tenets of ‘appropriate
femininity.’ Some celebrated Fátima’s sexuality and search for true love, yet others
lamented her sexuality;
Personally, I will NEVER understand her getting married only 3 MONTHS after
Sebastian's supposed death. I will never forgive her for that. Also, I hate that she slept with
Ramiro shortly after her return and before they got married. In my opinion, when Sebastian
supposedly died, she became a slut, easy and just plain corriente [cheap]. She's no price,
[sic] not any more (Tina, 17 August 2000).
This brief insight into viewer interpretation of the protagonists’ behaviour illustrates the
difficulty of a Manichaean reading of the characters’ trajectories. Yet regardless of
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audience taste, the potential that this telenovela held for a more inclusive female
characterisation and citizenship cannot be denied. In fact, this same dynamic is evident
within TV Azteca’s Amor en Custodia.
The ‘Tyranny’ of Narrative Extension
Described by TV Azteca as ‘a breakthrough in the history of telenovelas in Mexico’ (Anon.
n.d.g, n.p.) Amor En Custodia ran from July 2005 to August 2006, totaling 560 half hour
episodes (Anon. 2006, n.p.). Initially programmed for three months, the telenovela
achieved such ratings success that it was twice extended. For a telenovela initially criticised
as a mere adaptation or ‘refrito’ of an Argentinean novela, Amor en Custodia’s phenomenal
success was unprecedented, especially considering that ‘its most recent and successful
productions did not reach even 14 ratings points daily’ (De Cecco, 2005, n.p.). In fact Amor
en Custodia was not only the most successful television product in TV Aztecan history, but
for only the second time, since Mirada de Mujer, it achieved the ‘impossible’ of seriously
competing with Televisa’s ‘Channel of the Stars’ fare (Anon. n.d.g, n.p.).
Never before in Mexican television history had TV Azteca forced the hand of its
competition ‘to shake up or take out telenovela prime time on the Channel of the Stars’
(Anon. n.d.g, n.p.). Dubbing Televisa ‘El Imperio del Mal’ (‘The Evil Empire’) Martin
Luna, director of Estudios Azteca, affirmed the triumph, stating that ‘the plastic artists lost
out, our talent triumphed’ (Anon. n.d.h, n.p.). This challenge was further reinforced by
Mario San Roman who emphasised that ‘yes it is possible and yes we can beat Televisa as
many times as we want’ (Anon. n.d.h, n.p.).
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Yet despite the rhetoric, not all were pleased. The ‘chaos’ that this narrative extension
reaped on the sensibilities of telenovela lore has been documented in the press and online
telenovela forums. As early as February 2006, the newspaper La Vanguardia wrote ‘we
hope that they don’t stuff up the best that TV Azteca has on offer by extending it now until
June […] when “Amor en Custodia” celebrates one year on air’ (Anon. n.d.i, n.p.). In
retrospect, upon its much delayed grand final, one press release suggested that the novela
‘was ruined bit by bit, until it ended up becoming a telenovela made up of several
telenovelas’ (Anon. n.d.j, n.p.). So convoluted was the storyline of Amor en Custodia that
one viewer on the TelenovelaWorld forum suggested it should be distinguished into two
separate products of the ‘original’ and the ‘extended’ versions; ‘If they bring this out in
DVD, I sincerely hope they will give us the condensed version, ending it where it ended in
the original’ (dd, 2 June 2006).
Viewers on the forum discussed this commercialism with regard to issues of narrative
coherence and suggested Amor en Custodia suffered ‘what most novelas go through, not
knowing when to end’ (Jess*, 2 June 2006). Stating that ‘TV Azteca just doesnt [sic] know
how to have a hit’ they declared that ‘it is just so unusual for them to ACTUALLY have a
hit novela, one that has caused Televisa to rearrange their primetime, that when they
actually have one in their hands they ruin it’ (Paulo, 15 April 2006). Stating that ‘it is a
shame that TV Azteca gets drunk on the success of a telenovela like this’ one online
community set up an ‘Anti-Amor en Custodia’ forum. Members of this forum stated that it
was ‘Created by all of us who think that this telenovela has lost its way, that it laughs at its
audience with the illogical twists and turns of its storyline’ (Lesterol500, 28 June 2006) and
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equated the commercially-motivated narrative extension with “substandard storylines” and
consequently a “lack of respect” for its audience.
Certainly the frustrations of such economic rationalism are clear. Yet ironically, the female
citizenship that such ‘tyranny’ affords is egalitarian, as narrative extension ‘disturbs’ the
Manichaean melodramatic form and its ability to execute a ‘tidy’ version of the nation.
Indicative of this potential are viewer comments that the characters had ‘completely lost
direction’ due to changes which ‘occurred solely to add drama to the extended novela’ and
which were ‘obviously a gimmick to keep the novela going’ (dd, 12 April 2006). Their
critique of the telenovela’s inclusion of ‘absolutely every ridiculous novela cliche [sic] you
can think of into the last 2 months!’ (Robin N, 3 August 2006) such as the ‘number of
unknown and/or illegitimate children’ and the ‘number of dead who are not dead’ (dd, 23
June 2006) highlights this disturbance of the traditional plot. This disruptive relationship
between the narrative length and character trajectories was clarified when one viewer
complained ‘They've got to learn that extending a novela is a bad, bad thing, and hey, let's
call a moratorium on crazy characters, okay?’ (Robin N, 13 April 2006).
Thus despite this ‘tyrannical’ ratings pursuit, the effect of Amor en Custodia’s seemingly
eternal prolongation is the ‘disturbance’ of the Mexican telenovela’s typically Manichaean
plot. Despite its name, love is not the custodian, it does not ‘imprison’ its female characters,
such that who is and is not loved by the telenovela galán, and who does and does not
adhere to traditional configurations of ‘appropriate’ femininity, does not determine her
citizenship within the ‘ideal imagined’ community of this telenovela’s happily ever after.
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Coupled with the existence of two protagonists within the central narrative frame, the
‘disturbing effects’ of narrative extension are explored in the following analysis.
In the Custody of Love?
‘That’s love. When it comes into our lives it’s like a hurricane that completely destroys all of
our expectations.’
—Juan Manuel, Amor en Custodia
Narrating the story of Paz and Bárbara, mother and daughter of the wealthy Achával Urién
family, Amor en Custodia may not appear to ‘completely destroy all of our expectations’ of
the traditional love equation seemingly inherent to the Mexican telenovela form. Amor en
Custodia appears to be a traditional story of love conquering all obstacles, of class
ascendance, of the sorrows of the wealthy and their ‘salvation’ by the poor. Moreover, love
constitutes the narrative drive. Throughout the narrative, the respective love stories of the
two protagonists play out.
Despite her marriage to Alejandro, Paz falls in love with her bodyguard Juan Manuel
Aguirre when she discovers her husband’s infidelity. Similarly Bárbara falls in love with
her bodyguard Nicolás. Throughout the telenovela they must confront the many obstacles
that compromise their love, often caused by the antagonists. Yet by telenovela end they are
both married to their respective bodyguard galáns, and are the proud mothers of numerous
children. As protagonists, they are rewarded with the gift of life ‘happily ever after.’ For
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Bárbara, this even includes the inheritance of a castle in France, to complement her
fairytale ending.
The final scenes confirm the traditional fates meted out to the protagonists and antagonists
respectively. Paz and Bárbara are shown celebrating with their husbands and happy family.
In contrast are the fates of Carolina and Tatiana. Killed in a car accident towards telenovela
end, Carolina pays for her crimes to this ‘ideal imagined’ community, presented at the
narrative conclusion. Tatiana, who is revealed to be a long lost Achával Urién, is present at
the celebrations yet she sits quietly with her daughter. By her side is Pedro ‘The Monkey’, a
man in a leather jacket and long hair, who was once a criminal and prisoner. Although
Tatiana is a wife and mother, her fate does not resemble the fairytale of Bárbara’s life.
Consequently, Amor en Custodia appears to be a typical love story in which the protagonist
wins the heart of the telenovela galán, and is rewarded with her happy ending of marriage
and motherhood. In contrast, the antagonist is exiled from the telenovela as ‘ideal
imagined’ community, through death, internment in a mental health institution, or marriage
to a second rate male character, who himself once formed a threat to the ‘tidy nation.’
However despite its resemblance to the traditional formula, this narrative ‘destroys’ such
first impressions. Closer examination of the inversion of traditional character traits reveals
how this narrative ‘untidies’ female characterisation from telenovela beginning, and
consequently opens the prerequisites for female citizenship within this telenovela de
alteración.
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Who’s ‘Right’ To Be Loved?
Amor en Custodia provides an interesting revision of the well-worn narrative of class
ascension. Into this world where the rich are humbled by the poor (who ultimately enjoy a
newfound wealth to confirm their worth) there is an inversion of gender roles. Bodyguards
Juan Manuel and Nicolás move from their status as employees to male fixtures at the head
of the Achával Urién household. Just like their antecedents Cinderella and Maria, they hold
no financial incentives. Rather they are awarded this position through their role as the
‘chosen’ or ‘loved’, and so similarly enjoy the incidental acquisition of great wealth and
power.
This narrative development provides an interesting dynamic in relation to the telenovela
galán as source of empowerment for female characters. Typically this site is accompanied
by the wealth of the male figure yet it is displaced here. Paz and Bárbara’s wealth
undermines this site because they are not financially dependent on the male figure through
romantic ties. Consequently this reversal of financial independence gives the women the
power to choose which male attributes are worthy in the figure of the telenovela galán. By
emasculating the power and independence of these typically impenetrable figures, the
characteristics of the male galán become less prescriptive. Yet more importantly, this
inversion facilitates a shift in power dynamics between the male and female lovers.
Removing female dependence on financial support from the male figure ‘disturbs’ the
discourse surrounding the tenets of female passivity and personal agency and marks the
beginning of Amor en Custodia’s ‘disturbance’ of the traditional protagonists. This is
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subsequently evident in the existence of the ‘mature’ couple Paz and Juan Manuel at the
narrative core. The inclusion of a female protagonist whose age defies the conventional
parameters of romantic and sexual citizenship contrasts with the fate of Maria Inés (Mirada
de Mujer) and Valeria (Rosalinda) before her. Paz is passionate and sensual, where Maria
Inés is timid and cool. Furthermore her sexuality is incarnate as the flesh of her body is
presented onscreen, not hidden like that of Maria Inés. Unlike the horrifying image of
Valeria’s promiscuous body, Paz’s sexuality is emblematic of her namesake. Meaning
‘Peace’, Paz is a serene and upright figure in this ‘ideal imagined’ community.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 52- Aguilar & Paz
This inversion of the tenets dictating who is and is not worthy of the telenovela galán’s
love is facilitated by the co-presence of two female protagonists. Allowing for more
experimentation and transgression within their ranks, this ‘double act’ ‘disturbs’ the
traditional parameters of ‘appropriate’ femininity. Thus in addition to the mature
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protagonist Paz, the younger protagonist Bárbara also defies tradition. A comparison of
Bárbara with the antagonist Tatiana reveals her ‘disturbance’ of female characterisation and
citizenship within the Mexican telenovela.
Tatiana is first introduced as Juan Manuel and Gabriela’s loving daughter. She lives with
her mother and father in the countryside. Tatiana is a sweet, humble and sensitive young
woman who is very close to her family, as she says; ‘The most important thing is that all
three of us are together. Besides, you have always told me that material things don’t
matter.’ It is in fact ‘impossible not to fall in love with her’, as Paz concurs. Tatiana’s
beauty is simple and natural. She has a magical touch with plants, who she considers her
friends, giving them names such as Lola. As Paz explains, ‘I know that Tatiana has a
special touch with plants. It must be because of her great sensitivity.’
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
F igure 53- Barbara, Nicolas & Tatiana
In contrast, Bárbara is superficial, vain, manipulative, spoilt and arrogant. She constantly
squabbles with her mother, father and housekeeper. Bárbara’s beauty is edgy. Yet her
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‘alternative’, highly constructed hairstyles are only the beginning of her ‘unnatural’ beauty.
Bárbara’s twisted relationship with her self-image culminates in bulimia. She is shown
bingeing on sweets and pastries, then vomiting into the toilet bowl of her private bathroom.
Her torment is discovered by Nicolás who she too involves in her ugly unruliness by
threatening him; ‘I hate you! Right now I’m going to get you fired! […] If you say anything
I’ll kill myself. I swear that I will. I swear to God.’ Yet ultimately Bárbara’s banal
narcissism is farcical, as evident when she outlines her passions; ‘I love to swim, I like to
go shopping. I like to talk to my friends, to go out with my friends. You know, like, lots of
things.’
This is eclipsed by Tatiana’s quiet calm. Indeed Tatiana is special. She has a gift, as the
psychic tells her father; ‘We know that your daughter is special. There are people that see
things that others don’t see and they are chosen souls.’ By all accounts, Tatiana, the ‘chosen
soul’ should be the protagonist. Her sweet nature, altruism, loving relationship with her
family and endearing quirks set her up as the epitome of the ‘good’ ‘virgin’ protagonist.
Her unknown parentage, which sees her class ascension into the Achava Urien family, only
confirms this suitability as the Cinderella protagonist in the tradition of ‘Las Marias.’
However it is when Tatiana saves Nicolás’ life that she best illustrates her aptness for this
role. As Bárbara laments;
I lost credibility. […] Like, you know; the biggest proof of love that you can give someone
is to give your life to them, right? That squirrel face […] stole it from me, ok? She beat me.
Like now I can’t prove to Nicolás that I love him like she does […] she took that away
from me, she snatched it away, once again. Squirrel face.
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Nicolás acknowledges this trope and agrees to marry Tatiana on her deathbed, effectively
enacting her passage as the protagonist of the narrative, and seemingly enforcing traditional
telenovela lore.
Yet Tatiana is not the protagonist of his heart. As the telenovela galán, Nicolás’ preference
for Bárbara as the ‘love of his life’ complicates the traditional equation. Tatiana has in fact
manipulated the situation such that she presents an ongoing obstacle to the fulfillment of
Nicolás’ true love with Bárbara, as she tells Nicolás, ‘The only thing that I regret is not
making my dream a reality; marrying you. […] Because I love you.’ Tatiana is thus
repositioned as an active antagonist, desperate to win over Nicolás’ affections, which
Bárbara is powerless to prevent. Here Tatiana’s ‘goodness’ becomes problematic, as her act
of self-sacrifice threatens the true love equation between Bárbara and Nicolás.
Amor en Custodia’s inversion of these traditional tropes sets up an interesting paradigm,
within which Bárbara and Tatiana are rivals for Nicolás’ love, but in which the ‘bad’
woman has all the traits of the traditional protagonist and the ‘good’ has the traits of the
bad. In addition to Bárbara’s flawed character, her relationship with Nicolás is
unconventional. To begin, Bárbara is not a virgin upon meeting Nicolás, who she sets out
to torment. Indeed, their relationship is not built upon the conventional trope of ‘love at
first sight’ but rather bickering, insecurity and hard work. Bárbara emulates the role of the
‘unloved’ antagonist, telling Nicolás ‘It seemed impossible to me that someone like you
would be interested in me. It seemed impossible to me that someone like you could want
me.’
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However Bárbara’s status as the chosen recipient of Nicolás’ love endorses her
unconventional status as the protagonist. Her self-deprecating humour and crassness soon
become endearing, as one viewer writing in the TelenovelaWorld forum confirmed;
She seemed rather despicable in her brattiness and self-centeredness, but she somehow
manages to be charming and vulnerable at times, and I confess there are moments when I
like her. … Her character’s not that simple – sort of a mess and not completely good or bad
(Janet, 1 September 2005).
Bárbara is framed through Nicolás’ eyes and although her ‘uselessness for housework’
posits her as a ‘monster’, he states at the end that she is ‘the monster that I love.’
Consequently, rather than ostracise her as an unnatural woman, Bárbara’s ‘monstrous’
version of femininity, approved by the galán’s gaze, provides a revision of the formula. By
telenovela end Nicolás jokes that ‘I’m not really sure that you are the perfect woman’ but
she has his love and his declaration that ‘I know that we are going to be together for the rest
of our lives’. Accordingly, Bárbara is rewarded with her dream of happily ever after just as
she once hoped; ‘I dreamed about this Nicolás. I’m happy. I am completely happy for the
first time in my life.’
In contrast Tatiana gets the ‘second best’ ending, with her marriage to the ex-con Pedro
‘The Monkey.’ In fact Tatiana’s status as a ‘good’ woman is not enough to prevent her
descent into ‘evil’ during the telenovela, as her friend Lili tells her; ‘you hide behind that
angel face of yours but deep down you are a traitor.’ In addition to her manipulation of
Nico’s affections, she does all that she can to separate him from Bárbara. She feigns
pregnancy to Nicolás and later, when institutionalised for postnatal depression, she fakes
her cure to ensure release. As one viewer writing in the Telenovela-world forum exclaimed;
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‘Were I Tati's family, I'd be looking to lose the key! The key to her own little padded cell in
the asylum, that is!’ (Robin N, 4 April 2006).
Tatiana’s unprecedented transition, from the ‘good virgin’ robbed of the telenovela galán’s
affections to a vindictive villain, illustrates this ‘disturbance’ of the traditional tenets of
‘appropriate’ femininity. Indeed Bárbara’s unprecedented popularity confirms the appeal of
the unconventional protagonist and its ability to secure the telenovela’s success within a
wider demographic. As the actor Sebastián Estevanéz explained ‘compared to the
Argentinean version, in Mexico teenagers were very fanatical and they even copied some of
the characters’ idiosyncrasies’ (Anon. n.d.k, n.p.). In particular Bárbara’s irreverent persona
as a ‘chica fresa’, literally translated as ‘strawberry girl’, had the most influence on teen
culture at the time. Adopting a ‘bored rich girl’ accent and procuring such meaningless
idioms as ‘equis’ (‘whatever’), she articulated a popular attitude that spoke directly to its
teenage audience.
However neither Tatiana nor Bárbara, nor their fates, can be reduced to the ‘pure’ (albeit
inverted) Manichaean characterisation so typical of traditional fare. They are complex,
flawed characters who ‘disturb’ this formula. Both are redeemed within their narrative
trajectory and neither is exiled from the ‘ideal imagined’ community composed by narrative
end. Both appear in the final scenes of the telenovela, which show the festivities of this
community’s ‘happy ending’. The female citizenship thus endorsed within this version of
the ‘nation’ emphasises inclusion over exclusion, with an array of characters welcome to
stay.
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The protracted length of Amor en Custodia only serves to assist this ‘disturbance.’ By
unraveling the tight structure of the melodramatic core, ‘anything goes’. In this ‘fast and
loose’ context, the Manichaean dichotomy is undermined such that female characters
become complex subjects, situated in between the polarities of ‘good’ ‘virgin’ and ‘bad’
‘whore.’ This is evident not only with the inclusion of the antagonist Tatiana in the final
‘happy family’ scenes, but also the failure to deliver a genuine rival to Paz for Aguirre’s
love.
Whilst Carolina’s rivalry for Alejandro’s love proves impotent in light of the true flame Paz
holds for Juan Manuel Aguirre, mirroring the position of Daniela in Mirada de Mujer, there
is no equivalent of Marcela within this narrative. Furthermore, despite attempts to create
narrative drive with this melodramatic role, the embodiment of these rivalries (in Paz’s
blind daughter Millie and her evil twin sister Samantha) lack credibility. By the time that
Millie unsuspectingly falls in love with Juan Manuel when he moves to the same centre for
the blind in Switzerland and Samantha enters the narrative, the plot and characterisation
have become so complex that their authority as true love rivals fails to overcome the
farcical nature of the extended narrative.
Following this reading of the narrative and its characters’ trajectories, the title of the
telenovela is misleading. The female characters are in fact free from the ‘custody’ of the
love paradigm inherent to the traditional formula. Thus in the same way that Amor en
Custodia’s love is said to ‘destroy all certainty’, challenging the lives of all in its path, it
too destroys a certainty about who is and is not ‘loved’ in the Mexican telenovela.
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‘Disturbing’ the Traditional Formula
The inclusive female citizenship within both Tres Mujeres and Amor en Custodia is directly
related to the ‘disturbing’ effects on the Manichaean melodramatic form of both narrative
extension and increased cast size. Indeed, the ability for these narratives to provide a
complex female characterisation ‘beyond the status of a ‘symbol’ or ‘sign’ (Martín-Barbero
1995, 280) cannot be ignored. Furthermore, the ratings popularity of these telenovelas de
alteración confounds the notion that a tight Manichaean melodramatic narrative is inherent
to the genre of a commercially viable industry. The success of these narratives verifies the
ability for non-formulaic versions of the fictional nation and its female citizens to meet the
industry’s financial imperatives.
However, in a dramatic final twist, the intense ‘stretching’ of this formula that accompanies
the ‘unbridled commercialism’ of excessive narrative extension seems to have self
imploded, undermining the very foundations that it relies upon. Indeed, unlike the
popularity of the ‘post-romantic’ investment in telenovela subgenres, which accommodate
both niche markets and national mood, the telenovela de alteración may not be a viable
long-term option for ‘disturbing’ the traditional form. With audiences taking issue with the
‘tyrannous’ extension of popular narratives, and calling for a ‘moratorium’ on the
consequently ‘crazy’ characters that this creates, capitalising on the financial success of
popular narratives may in fact turn audiences away. As one viewer articulated this process;
they pad them with lots of wasted time, and drag them out to increase profits - and it's what
has made me abandon most of them. The plot moves at a glacial pace, and they throw in
crappy subplots which serve no purpose but filler. Contrast to the short, tight novelas,
where there is always progress and the subplots actually support the main plot. […] Given
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a choice, a padded 200-cap novela with money to spend on production quality, or a tight
100-cap (95, 130, thereabouts) novela on a budget, I like this way better (Paula H, 2 March
2010).
Evidently the prolongation of a telenovela’s episode run is a fine line for producers to tread;
negotiating how to capitalise on a successful product whilst avoiding the ‘betrayal’ of
faithful audiences through excessive narrative extension. This constant negotiation of
audiences ‘tastes’ with industry imperatives is motivated by fear of losing ratings and
consequently the hesitancy to create a new product, especially when such logic as ‘because
that’s the genre’ prevails.
Perhaps more than ever this negotiation continues, with audiences defecting to other means
of entertainment with the ease of access facilitated by the diversification of distribution
platforms and pirated goods. Azcárraga’s 2008 comments that the Mexican free to air
television industry had effectively ‘reached its potential’ and that Televisa would focus on
new horizons such as pay television and transnational co-production partnerships, indicate
industry frustration accompanying the waning popularity of telenovelas at home and abroad
(AMAP 2008). It also explains the apparent lack of investment in revising the genre. A
brief review of recent developments in this uncertain industry concludes this study, and
helps to consider what future may lie beyond the Mexican telenovela’s scripted ‘happy
ending’.
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Conclusion
Beyond the ‘Happy Ending’?
Conclusion: Beyond the ‘Happy Ending’?
Several recent programming ventures at Televisa and Argos indicate a revision of the freeto-air television portfolio, which responds to the changing media landscape. The investment
in internationally co-produced cross-platform mini-series like Televisa’s S.O.S. Sexo y
otros Secretos (‘Sex and Other Secrets’ 2007 & 2008) and Mujeres Asesinas (‘Women
Murderers’ 2008 & 2009) reflect Azcárraga’s 2008 announcement that the conglomerate
would develop ‘a plan to expand into international markets based on relationships with
strategic partners and packaged content’ as well as national pay television markets.
Produced for HBO Latino, Argos’ own mini-series Capadocia (2007 & 2009) is also
indicative of this industry trend.
All three programs promise possible growth areas for telenovela content as new ‘gritty’
opportunities for female characterisation and citizenship within Mexican television follow.
A brief review of their narrative content certainly confirms this prospect. However, a
consideration of the publicity and industry dynamics surrounding this recent programming
trend raises questions about the ultimate sustainability of revising the telenovela’s narrative
schema, beyond the ‘happy ending’.
Sexo y Otros Secretos constituted one of the four mini-series made under a new
programming initiative dubbed Series Originales- Hecho en Mexico (‘Original SeriesMade in Mexico’). Narrating the story of ‘five women, with totally different ways of seeing
and living life, whose only tie is the friendship that brings them together’ (Anon. 2007f,
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n.p.), Sexo y Otros Secretos introduces new character types and configurations of
community to the Mexican television screen. This is facilitated by the large cast, the lack of
a clear female protagonist or antagonist, the comedic tone and the emphasis on female
friendship over heterosexual romantic relations. Accordingly, the narrative focus shifts to a
more inclusive trajectory for the female characters who have ‘learned to live with the good
and the bad that life gives them, to laugh at the dramas that life presents them, to confront
the ghosts and taboos, to get carried away by their desires, dreams and passions’ (Anon.
2007f, n.p.).
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 54- Sexo y Otros Secretos Season 1
Figure 55- Sexo y Otros Secretos Season 2
Each of the female characters illustrates this wider scope. Tania is a married lawyer who
has a six-month-old baby, who loves her husband, but can’t decide ‘what is it that is more
important to her: passion or love’ (Anon. 2007g, n.p.). Maggie is the single mother of a
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teenage daughter. As a telenovela writer, her work ‘leads her to live great romances in her
imagination, which, no matter how hard she tries, never eventuate in real life’ (Anon.
2007g, n.p.). Irene is a housewife who discovers that her husband is cheating on her and
decides that her ultimate revenge will be to make him fall madly in love with her without
ever being able to have her. Pamela is a beautiful and intelligent young woman who falls in
love with her married boss. Sofía is a sexually independent executive who is confident she
could never fall in love with just one man, so enjoys many. The theme song for the series
introduces the ideological terrain explored here when it states that;
There are women thinking of committing suicide
They never thought about what a hell it would be to get married
There are women who always like to pretend
At the end of the day it isn’t a lie
And don’t take advantage
We’re lovers not servants
Ah women
Reviews were mixed. Sexo y Otros Secretos was criticised by many bloggers as a rip off of
HBO’s Sex and the City for its similar cast of thirty-somethings whose mishaps in life and
love in the big city provide the fodder for the storyline. Yet other viewers embraced the
series, and commended its thematic and aesthetic distinctions from the traditional
telenovela. Benjamin Cann, producer and director of the series further clarifies the move
away from the telenovela stating that ‘the characters have other scenic objectives, they have
other things to do, very different from the basic preoccupation of the telenovelas which is I
suffer or I don’t suffer’ (Anon. 2007h, n.p.). He assures that the show ‘will really interest
the women of this generation’, even though ‘it will hurt’ (Anon. 2007h, n.p.). The notion
that this new type of representation has to be cruel to be kind is accompanied by
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disclaimers, which reassure that ‘there won’t be any strong scenes even though the title is
provocative’ (Anon. 2007i, n.p.).
It would seem that the moral parameters of the telenovela love story continue within this
new world. Yet whilst such disclaimers may compromise Televisa’s first contemporary
attempt to ‘dirty’ the traditional narrative schema, the investment in ‘gritty reality’ to
diversify Televisa’s production portfolio is consolidated within the hit three-season miniseries Mujeres Asesinas (‘Killer Women’ 2008, 2009, 2010). Based on real-life events in
which thirteen different women murder the source of their oppression, Mujeres Asesinas is
the Mexican version of Argentina’s wildly successful four-season mini-series of the same
name. This original version has become a transnational format, within which the murders
perpetrated are adapted to real-life cases from the different countries in which it is
produced.
With critically acclaimed ratings successes in Argentina, Colombia, Ecuador, Spain, Italy
and Mexico, Mujeres Asesinas ‘has become a major TV hit and a minor pop-culture
phenomenon in certain Spanish-speaking parts of this hemisphere’ (Johnson R, n.d, 1). An
English-Language US version is in the pipeline after the exceptional ratings success of
Mexico’s first season on the Univision network in early 2009 when ‘the first episode of the
internationally acclaimed mini-series captured the #3 spot for the 10:00-11:00 pm time
period among Adults 18-34, Women 18-34 and Persons 12-34, beating CBS among all
viewers, not just Hispanics’ (Seidman 2009, n.p.).
With each of the thirteen episodes named after the woman and her crime, such titles as
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‘Patricia Avenger’, ‘Martha Suffocator’ and ‘Margarita Poisonous’, signal the
transnational appeal of such sensationally sexy “super villains”. The publicity surrounding
the Mexican version plays up to this femme fatale logic by sleekly packaging the image of
A-list actresses in elegant white blood-spattered attire on billboards across the country.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 56- Mujeres Asesinas Season 1
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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 57- Mujeres Asesinas Season 2
Such is the sex appeal of this advertising that actresses have lined up for a chance to star in
their own episode. It would seem that every article promoting the series lists the stellar cast
and revels in the participation of such Mexican sweethearts as Maite Perroni, who played
Guadalupe in the Rebelde/RBD franchise. As one article proclaims, ‘Maite Perroni has
mastered the art of playing la niña buena [‘good girl’] role […] but the angelic actress is
surprising telenovela fans with a new murderous role’ (Anon. 2008, n.p.). Another enthuses
that ‘actress Mary Sorté, who has typically characterised sweet and affectionate roles in
telenovelas such as Fuego en la Sangre, turns her back on tenderness to become a
bloodthirsty woman’ (Ramírez, n.d., n.p.). This meta-textual narrative of ‘good girls go
bad’ only serves to increase the potent combination of star power, via what seems to be the
show’s investment in the type of blood-spattered voyeurism typical of ‘yellow journalism’.
The show’s provocative advertising tag lines exemplify this sensationalist approach,
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warning ‘Beware! Don’t let your woman watch this new series’.
The notion that such programming might ‘incite women to commit more acts of revengefueled [sic] violence’ has been promoted in the wider media, with its frequent recourse to
the misogynist logic of machismo (Anon. n.d.l, n.p.). Thus, although the series’
sensationalist approach seems an insincere engagement with the tragic origins of each
episode, it nonetheless highlights the ways in which this narrative challenges the traditional
gender tropes of prime time telenovela fare. Integral to the series’ promotion is the
explication that the female characters are not Manichaean replicas of telenovela lore, as
Univision’s website clarifies ‘female murderers are very common in telenovelas, but one
does not expect a noble heroine to brandish a weapon’ (Venant n.d., n.p.).
In this way, Mujeres Asesinas’ principal marketing approach is to acknowledge the
traditional parameters that would judge these ‘killer women’, but then debunk it.
Univision’s tagline ‘13 stories of passion, revenge and… justice?’ (Carillo n.d., n.p.)
exemplifies this. Indeed, much of Mujeres Asesinas’ publicity emphasises the diversion
from a dichotomous representational schema of ‘killer’ and ‘victim’. Instead,
what is novel is that they are women who are not ready to kill, but who do it in search of a
better life. They are women who suffer and who have arrived at such a degree of suffering
that they feel the only way to stop the cycle is with such a final and terrible act (Rivero
n.d., n.p.).
This multivalent potential plays out through the cross-platform invitation for increased
audience participation in determining the innocence of the protagonists. Asking ‘do you
think it’s possible to feel sorry for a murderer?’ the series’ webpage provides an online
bonus feature through which viewers must ‘decide if the assassin of the week is innocent or
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guilty’ (Anon. n.d.N, n.p.). This process occurs in two stages. Predicated on a recognition
that ‘coming across 12 women who are capable of committing the most horrific of crimes
might confuse you’, the webpage invites ‘a responsible public; possessing a perspicacity
capable of dealing with strong episodes’ to ‘enter The Consultation Room where experts
will outline for you the factors that constitute the psychosis of these Killer Women’ (Anon.
n.d.M, n.p.). This forum allows viewers to ‘read the analysis that our psychologist gives for
each of the assassins’ (Anon. n.d.m). Viewers are then encouraged to enter ‘the jury’ where
they can take justice into their own hands by voting for the prosecution or defence, thereby
choosing from the two opposing narrative frameworks for her crime.
A review of the verdicts for each episode of the first season evidences this shifting narrative
focus towards the open interpretation of transgressive women, with viewers decreeing five
murderers ‘innocent’ and the remaining eight ‘guilty’ (Anon. n.d.N, n.p.). Whilst some of
the guilty parties attracted very little empathy from the viewers who almost unanimously
voted them so, other cases divided viewers more evenly. Consequently, it is through this
contextualisation of their crimes that the framing of these ‘killer woman’ as the product of
female oppression can be seen. Univision’s webpage for the program further indicates this
recognition of the wider socio-cultural issues motivating these crimes, with hyperlinks to
such articles entitled ‘Violence against women’ and ‘Violence is suffered in silence’ (Anon.
n.d.N, n.p.).
This shift in Televisa’s narrative repertoire is significant. It illustrates the ways in which the
‘gritty realism’ of such stories can create female characters beyond the exclusionary
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representational schema of the Manichean melodramatic trajectory and its ultimately
‘happy ending’. Yet the break that Argos/HBO’s International Emmy Award winning miniseries Capadocia (2007) makes with this traditional narrative schema is even more
profound.
Capadocia is a hard-hitting 13-part mini-series set in a women’s prison in the bowels of
Mexico City. Narrating the systematic corruption that mars attempts to set up a
rehabilitation program within the prison, the prisoners are exploited for the cheap labour
that provides a cover for illegal drug trafficking. To this macrocosm, which finds parallels
with Mexico’s systematic corruption, Capadocia narrates both the individual circumstances
that lead to the prisoners’ incarceration and the reality of their lives on the inside.
Amongst those women is Lorena, who is jailed for murder, when after discovering her
husband and best friend having sex, accidentally pushes her down the stairs. Because the
victim was the daughter of a high court judge, her trial is a mere formality. Her cellmate
Magos is jailed for the murder of her children, whom she attempted to ‘protect’ from her
abusive husband. Antonia is a post-op transsexual jailed for fraud committed to pay for her
surgeries. Guadalupe is an indigenous maid framed for the murder of her employer. As with
Mujeres Asesinas, Capadocia ‘presents in detail those incredibly painful circumstances for
women in [Mexico], as in all of Latin America, [which arise] due to economic and gender
injustice’ (Ibarra in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.). Similarly, Capadocia illustrates this
injustice by undermining the traditional ‘happy ending’ relegated to ‘good’ versus ‘evil’
characters. Ultimately, such Manichaean characters do not exist within this narrative, as the
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mini-series focuses on the extremes to which women are pushed, both inside and outside of
the prison walls. Consequently, there are no ‘happy endings’ for any of these women.
Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.
Figure 58- Capadocia (Series 1)
Where the traditional telenovela framework would have ensured the rightful justice of these
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protagonists by narrative end, Capadocia’s corruption of this schema provides a bitter
antidote. Here Argos is finally afforded the freedom to narrate the stories previously denied
them at TV Azteca and Telemundo. Unlike the limitations inherent to the telenovela as
genre of a commercial industry, working on a mini-series for the non-commercial HBO
Latino has changed Argos’ playing field. Indeed, Capadocia ‘is a completely different story
from what has until now been seen on television’ (Ibarra in Vértiz de la Fuente, 2008, n.p.).
For Grillo in Time magazine, this ‘grim, bloody and chaotic’ series ‘doesn't look like the
usual Mexican telenovela, packed with scantily clad girls, dashing macho men and
unceasing melodrama’ (Grillo 2008, n.p.). It is ‘groundbreaking’ in its lack of narrative
convention, as one viewer from an online forum explains ‘most of the dialogue and plot is
moved by the women, something unheard of in Mexican TV’ (ciscokidinsf, 11 May 2008).
Consequently, for Ibarra, ‘one sees the Latin woman as never before on television’ (Ibarra
in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.).
According to Ibarra Capadocia has ‘establish[ed] an important precedent for the Mexican
industry’ (in Cruz Bárcenas 2008, n.p.). The ratings success of Capadocia confirms this.
Considering its limited ratings potential on pay television, it has proven to be an
unprecedented achievement that rivalled its free to air equivalents (Cruz-Bárcenas 2008,
n.p.). Such success has secured a second season of the mini-series, which airs in 2010. With
the series’ exceptionally speedy transmission on HBO in the US, Capadocia’s producers
assert the project is so hot that ‘if you ask […] any [actor], director or producer if he wants
to be in Capadocia, he would say yes’ (‘Premian a Capadocia en Monte Carlo’ 2008).
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Yet not so certain is what this latest trend in the Mexican television industry means for the
telenovela. Describing Capadocia as ‘the most important [project] that Argos has done in its
16 years of existence’ (in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.) it is clear that Ibarra and Argos are
currently invested in the production of mini-series with independent channels over
commercial telenovela fare. Identifying the current trend in television series, Ibarra asserts
that ‘Mexican television must advance in this direction because the public’s tastes are more
varied and sophisticated’ (in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.). Further distancing Argos from
telenovela production, Ibarra explains that ‘television cannot just exist as an escape’ (in
Cruz Bárcenas 2008, n.p.). Consequently, ‘if we just focus on the production of light
telenovelas, we are doing a disservice to the audience and even more damage to the
industry’ (Ibarra in Cruz Bárcenas 2008, n.p.).
Argos’ recent deal ‘to produce original television movies exclusively for Cinelatino’ would
suggest that there are no immediate plans to translate the ‘gritty reality’ depicted within
Capadocia to the telenovela format. Considering their struggle to achieve this with TV
Azteca and Telemundo in the past, it is not surprising that they emphasise a desire to
continue working on independent projects with HBO.
In addition to Argos’ apparent move away from telenovela production, Televisa seems
unwilling to translate the ‘gritty realism’ of its new programming to its programming
staple. The publicity surrounding Sexo y Otros Secretos confirms this move, as producers
emphasised that this new story was just an attempt to diversify, as a ‘complimentary
product’ that would not be ‘detrimental to telenovela production’ (Agencias PDA 2007).
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Indeed, José Bastón, corporate vice president of television at Televisa reassured that ‘the
telenovela is the most important product in the company and I feel that it will keep being so
over many years’ as ‘we have the largest investment in telenovela production and we will
continue to have this’ (Agencias PDA 2007).
Yet what exactly this means for the telenovela remains unclear. Certainly, it would seem
that a bifurcation in television content may occur, where telenovelas continue the
traditional narrative schema, and newer formats to Mexican television embrace a strategic
diversification of narrative form and content for lucrative markets at home and abroad.
Despite claims that ‘the television audience will benefit from the new and better proposals
for quality made in Mexico’ (Estrada 2007, n.p.) the new mini-series seem ultimately
destined for international markets. With the use of High Definition filming technology,
Bastón explained that they may be sold as a format or “as is”, in that ‘due to their quality,
these products could compete with series such as Rome or The Sopranos’ (Anon. 2007J,
n.p.).
Yet regardless of the currency of their form, the new format is definitely an attempt at resecuring international markets that have begun to wean themselves off imported telenovela
products by producing their own. Writing for Variety in 2007, Michael O’Boyle cites an
interview with TV Azteca’s Vice president for international sales Marcel Vinay in which
‘Vinay warns the market for finished telenovelas is getting tighter. More territories that
were once telenovela dumping grounds, like Russia and the former Eastern bloc, produce
more of their own content’ (O’Boyle 2007a, n.p.).
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A further indicator that the new ‘Series Originales’ do not augur change in female
characterisation and citizenship within the Mexican telenovela, is that the new
programming seeks not to modify the genre in order to ‘challenge’ its audiences. Instead,
the publicity outlined Televisa’s motivation to ‘recoup for open television a young audience
that fell out of their hands’ (Anon. 2007K, n.p.). Identifying this audience as 18-34 year
olds who ‘nowadays are using other media to entertain themselves such as pay TV’ (Bastón
2007K, n.p.) Bastón clarified that this new format will be ‘a “complimentary product”
directed at another type of public with a higher socioeconomic level and a younger age’
(Bastón 2007K, n.p.).
These comments suggest not only a bifurcation of television content, but also a conscious
class differentiation between television audiences. John Sinclair confirms this scenario
when he writes
Television is becoming stratified, with convergent services for the relative elite who can
afford them, and free-to-air for the masses that can’t. Since this division corresponds to real
socio-economic differences in the population, it is most acute in developing world regions.
In Latin America, for example, globalized elites can enjoy direct-to-home subscription
television, while la gente corriente, the ordinary people, watch more traditional fare
(Sinclair 2004, 45).
Following this scenario, speculation on contemporary industry developments indicates
three possible fates awaiting the grand dame of Mexican television as she enters her sixth
decade. In one possible future, the shifting demands of trans/national audiences accompany
developments within the new media landscape, effectively providing the impetus for
change in the telenovela formula. With increased audience ability to defect to alternative
means of entertainment, viewers are able to determine telenovela content like never before.
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The ‘coming of age’ that might accompany this shift could see telenovelas ‘keeping up with
the times’ by effectively changing their narrative schema to stave off a ratings decline.
Here, the possibility for more nuanced stories about the nation and its citizens might
follow. As audiences are targeted through niche marketing demarcated by demographics
such as age, gender, and personal interests, and as these niche markets proliferate, a move
away from the creation of mass-produced narratives accommodating both national and
transnational audiences might then see a divestment in a commodified national whole.
Following this revision of telenovela content, the exclusionary configuration of female
characters and citizenship might crumble, with both niche markets and more nuanced
depictions of the nation demanding new formulas for ratings success.
Two recent projects indicate the potential of this scenario. Following the success of
Mujeres Asesinas, Pedro Torres capitalised on the popularity of the current trend in ‘gritty
realism’, and announced the development of a seventy-five-episode telenovela script based
on the subject of divorce, for transmission in 2010 (Diana C. 2009, n.p.). Televisa’s
publicity drive entitled ‘Tu Historia en Telenovela’ (‘Your Story as a Telenovela) in
January 2009 suggests a similar revision of the telenovela formula. Urging the general
public to ‘tell us your story and see it interpreted by your favourite actor or actress on
television’ (Hauswaldt 2009, n.p.) the writers of such projects as Sexo y otros Secretos and
Tres Mujeres here provided the phone number, and postal and email addresses of the ‘Your
Story as a Telenovela’ project via television commercials, online news articles and chat
forums in the hope of motivating the public to get involved. As they explained,
It doesn’t matter if you write well or badly, if you live in Mexico or abroad, if you are a
man or a woman, or if your story is a romance, drama, comedy or any other genre. The
most important thing is that you get involved, so that soon you can see your story on
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television. Come on! What are you waiting for? (Hauswaldt 2009, n.p.)
Unlike the spiral-like recourse to tradition that marked even the ‘revolutionary’ telenovela
de ruptura period, within this scenario such trends become staples of the telenovela’s
narrative schema. As the power relations between producers and consumers shift in the era
of the network society, television networks are obligated to ‘get with the program’ by
updating and diversifying content for a newly empowered audience. Here, a telenovela
formula connected to centuries old political projects such as female mythification must
move with the times.
In contrast to this particular scenario, an alternative fate of faded grandeur might transpire
for the Mexican telenovela. At her half-century mark, the traditional telenovela formula has
a long history of resurfacing after various trends and ‘national moods’ provide temporary
momentum. This telenovela is inextricably connected with the historical construction of a
cultural imaginary and the production and consumption dynamics of an established
television industry. Consequently, some critics of the new ‘gritty realism’ have questioned
the ability for trends to augur change. As Grillo in Time magazine, mirroring the
‘television-for-the-screwed-masses’ logic of Azcárraga Milmo writes;
Many in countries with crime and corruption problems may prefer not to see the misery
replayed in their entertainment. One of the reasons telenovelas are so successful in the
developing world is that they offer a pleasant escape, where the virtuous are rewarded and
the endings are happy (Grillo 2008, n.p.).
Auguring a future invested in the past, this ‘need’ for escapist entertainment combines with
both the limited economic opportunity to access alternative entertainment of much of freeto-air television’s audience, and the commercial imperatives of a billion dollar industry.
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The speedy cancellation of the ‘Tu Historia en Telenovela’ project before it even got off the
ground signals this dynamic, as the spiral-like nature of Mexican telenovela history comes
to depict a vortex against which change becomes a transitory moment; another ‘tremor’ on
the surface of a deeply immovable core.
Alternatively, the ability for the Mexican telenovela’s representational schema to effect
change in the new media landscape of increased content diversity and decreased audience
loyalty may well see the flourishing of new programming forms designed to captivate these
audiences, whilst the telenovela embraces its glorious past. Such nostalgia might effect a
further strengthening of those traditional narrative tropes that constitute this history. Like
the golden era of Mexican cinema, which plays on late night television and Sunday
afternoons, the telenovela may become a precious relic, narrating the stories of a bygone
era in which the nation and its televisual representations are both a reflection and a mirage.
Fifty years old, fifty years young, or somewhere in between; the value of such speculation
can only stretch so far. Seeing into the future defies even the most formulaic of pasts. Thus
despite the reflection induced by such a landmark occasion, many questions remain at the
telenovela’s half-century mark; after fifty years of love and betrayal, will the ending come?
Will it be happy? Whose happiness will it preclude? Or will the women of the telenovela
future face a fate less prescribed than their audacious ancestors? What future lies beyond
the Mexican telenovela’s happy ending remains to be seen, but will no doubt be as
passionate as the tales before it.
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Bibliography
Bibliography
Telenovelas
Mini-series
Interviews
On-line discussion fora
Articles, books and material published on Internet
Theses and Dissertations
Telenovelas
Abrázame Muy Fuerte, 2000, Televisa, Mexico.
Acapulco, Cuerpo y Alma, 1995, Televisa, Mexico.
Amor en Custodia, 2005, TV Azteca, Mexico.
Amor Mio, 2006, Televisa, Mexico.
Amor Real, 2003, Televisa, Mexico.
Azul Tequila, 1998, Zuba Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico.
Clase 406, 2002, Televisa, Mexico.
Cuando Seas Mia, 2001, TV Azteca, Mexico.
Cuna de Lobos, 1986, Televisa, Mexico.
Destilando Amor, 2007, Televisa, Mexico.
El Candidato, 1999, Zuba Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico.
El Manantial, 2001, Televisa, Mexico.
Fuego en la Sangre, 2007, Televisa, Mexico.
Juana la Virgen, 2002, RCTV International, Venezuela.
La Hija del Jardinero, 2003, TV Azteca, Mexico.
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La Dueña, 1995, Televisa, Mexico.
La Fea más Bella, 2006, Televisa, Mexico.
La Madrastra, 2005, Televisa, Mexico.
Las Tontas no Van al Cielo, 2008, Televisa, Mexico.
Los Sanchez, 2004, TV Azteca, Mexico.
Mariana de la Noche, 2004, Televisa, Mexico.
Mirada de Mujer, 1997, Argos Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico.
Mirada de Mujer: El Regreso, 2003, TV Azteca, Mexico.
Nada Personal, 1996, Argos Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico.
Nina Amada Mia, 2003, Televisa, Mexico.
Rebelde, 2004-2006, Televisa, Mexico.
Rosalinda, 1999, Televisa, Mexico.
Tres Mujeres, 1999, Televisa, Mexico.
Vivir Sin Ti, 2008, Argos Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico
Yo Amo a Juan Querendon, 2007, Televisa, Mexico.
Mini-series
Capadocia, 2007, Argos Productions, HBO, Mexico.
Mujeres Asesinas, 2008, Televisa, Mexico.
Ni Una Vez Más, 2005, TV Azteca, Mexico.
Sexo y Otros Secretos, 2007, Televisa, Mexico.
Sin Tetas no Hay Paraiso, 2006, Caracol TV, Colombia.
Tan Infinito Como el Desierto, 2004, TV Azteca, Mexico.
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Interviews
Bustos Romero, O (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico
City. Eva Lewkowicz. 19 January.
Blanco, C (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 17 January.
Bernard, M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City.
Eva Lewkowicz. 24 January.
Belausteguigoitia Rius, M.I (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person]
Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 6 February.
Cervantes Gutierrez, C (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person]
Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 1 February.
Covarrubias, C & Uribe, A (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person]
Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 5 February.
Cueva, A (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 12 January.
Cueva, A (2008) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 25 February.
Flores, B (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 23 January.
Flores, B (2008) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 24 February.
González, J (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City.
Eva Lewkowicz. 15 February.
Ibarra, E.C (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City.
Eva Lewkowicz. 9 February.
Martínez, G (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City.
Eva Lewkowicz. 22 February.
Mejía, M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview- in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 17 January.
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Muñoz, M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City.
Eva Lewkowicz. 17 January.
Rios de la Mora, N.P (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person]
Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 4 February.
Sanchez Menchero, L.M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person]
Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 8 February.
Serrano, J.A (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City.
Eva Lewkowicz. 23 January.
Sosa, L (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 5 February.
Vera, H (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva
Lewkowicz. 22 January.
Zerme0o Flores, A. I (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person]
Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 30 January.
Online Discussion Fora, ordered by name of contributor and date.
alecey. (21 January 2002). The Ending. Available from Mirada de Mujer discussion forum
@Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=98&i=530&t=530 (Accessed 6 March 2008)
Alexis. (28 May 2006). Re: I Liked It. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum
@Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=8&i=7590&t=7581#reply_7590 (Accessed 27 July 2008)
Charma. (14 September 1999). Ugh! You're right, Tuly..... Available from Tres Mujeres
discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=8&i=161&t=149#reply_161 (Accessed 27 July 2008)
ciscoidinsf. (24 April 2008). New jail drama series in HBO for Latin America. Available
from Capadocia: HBO's Oz for Mujeres discussion forum
@forumstelevisionwithoutpity.com: http://forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/index.
php?s=7a0f2f9893d2ce14dde90f37e857b7be&showtopic=3171768&st=0 (Accessed 16
September 2009)
ciscoidinsf. (11 May 2008). Bump! The re-watch continues. Available from Capadocia:
HBO's Oz for Mujeres discussion forum @forumstelevisionwithoutpity.com:
http://forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/index.php?s=7a0f2f9893d2ce14dde90f37e857b7be
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&showtopic=3171768&st=0 (Accessed 16 September 2009)
Connie C. (24 September 1999). They need to start making Barbara more human.
Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com:
http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=940&t=919#reply_940 (Accessed
27 July 2008)
dd. (31 October 1999). I’ve had it with this novela. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion
forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=8&i=3107&t=3107#reply_3107 (Accessed 27 July 2008)
dd. (2 November 1999). I don’t think the characters of mature. Available from Tres
Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovelaworld.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=3206&t=3107#reply_3206 (Accessed 27 July 2008)
dd. (12 April 2006). 3 more mos. of this Televisaritis. Available from Amor en Custodia
discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=337&i=459&t=459#reply_459 (Accessed 14 August 2008)
dd. (2 June 2006). it's turned into "tu y yo". Available from Amor en Custodia discussion
forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=337&i=512&t=504#reply_512 (Accessed 14 August 2008)
dd. (23 June 2006). Things we should have been counting. Available from Amor en
Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovelaworld.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=523&t=523#reply_523 (Accessed 14 August 2008)
isto. (22 November 2006). Re: Hopefully after Soñadoras End. they'll put it for 2 hours so
it will end by..... Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @Telenovela-world.com:
http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=7622&t=7619#reply_7622
(Accessed 27 July 2008)
Janet. (1 September 2005). I'm liking AEC: some observations so far.... Available from
Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovelaworld.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=49&t=49#reply_49 (Accessed 14 August 2008)
Jess*. (2 June 2006). Re: I'm sooo conflicted! Available from Amor en Custodia discussion
forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=337&i=511&t=504#reply_511 (Accessed 14 August 2008)
Lesterol500. (2006) Forum Anti Amor en Custodia @
http://foros.paralax.com.mx/discus/messages/42/54628.html (Accessed 14 August 2008)
Lupita. (16 September 1999). Pre-marital sex and spousal abuse.... Available from Tres
Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovelaworld.com/n4/search.php?f=8 (Accessed 27 July 2008)
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Lupita. (1 November 1999). But there’s something that keeps me coming back….
Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com:
http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=3120&t=3107#reply_3120
(Accessed 27 July 2008)
Paula H. (2 March 2010). Results of a "shortened" novela. Available from El Clon
discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/readt.php?f=618&i=3907&t=3907#reply_3907 (Accessed 15 April 2010)
Paulo. (15 April 2006). Ive always said, TV Azteca doesnt know how to have a hit….
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(Accessed 14 August 2008)
(Robin N, 4 April 2006). Were I Tati's family, I'd be looking to lose the key! Available from
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Robin N. (13 April 2006). Thank Heavens for the Azteca summaries. Available from Amor
en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovelaworld.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=460&t=459#reply_460 (Accessed 14 August 2008)
Robin N. (3 August 2006). I’ve been reading the Azteca summaries. Available from Amor
en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovelaworld.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=556&t=555#reply_556 (Accessed 14 August 2008)
Tina. (17 August 2000). RE: dropping in on last week - can't believe it. Available from
Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovelaworld.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=7245&t=7243#reply_7245 (Accessed 27 July 2008)
Tuly. (14 September 1999). Or what about….Available from Tres Mujeres discussion
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Tuly. (1 November 1999). Yes, Lupita, the complexity of human behavior.... Available
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