The first film is by an Italian singer called Mina (Mazzini) who was a dominant figure on the charts of her native country during the 1960s and 1970s. She was noted both for the agility of her soprano voice and her image as an emancipated woman. Here, in 1965, she sings the original song later performed and popularised by Spain's Luz Casal. The subtlety of the original lyrics - adapted by Casal - is a more sensual evocation; more essential because its naked passion wears an highly inflammable post-war peignoir. Passion, in pre-1980s Spain, was not merely discouraged by El Caudillo but in some cases a prosecutable act. People could not throw parties without first informing the Guardia Civil a week beforehand. Crowds potentially breed insurgent behaviour. And the spontaneous dancing of homosexuals.
Mina is intense, memorable and strikes some inspired profile poses that remind one of Françoise Hardy and Sandie Shaw's early Epic label days, as in the rare mono experience of Long Walk Home. Mina's relationship with the camera is interesting in the way that she distances herself from it with silhouetted privacy and a certain stillness. (Stillness, in cinema, is always the key.) The head slightly bobs in a way that tells us that she was once the doyenne of late night Milanese coffee bars, but she is within the song. Most artists never do this - it goes entirely against their nature. As anyone testifying to the sight of Mick Jagger trying to occupy a square-kilometre of stage, simultaneously, will tell you. Mina was a good actress, and an Italian amante who challenged the Vatican with her dyed blonde hair, smoking habits and taking up with married men. She was banned from the Italian airwaves, yet her popularity prevailed and the RAI had to make a U-turn.
Mina is intense, memorable and strikes some inspired profile poses that remind one of Françoise Hardy and Sandie Shaw's early Epic label days, as in the rare mono experience of Long Walk Home. Mina's relationship with the camera is interesting in the way that she distances herself from it with silhouetted privacy and a certain stillness. (Stillness, in cinema, is always the key.) The head slightly bobs in a way that tells us that she was once the doyenne of late night Milanese coffee bars, but she is within the song. Most artists never do this - it goes entirely against their nature. As anyone testifying to the sight of Mick Jagger trying to occupy a square-kilometre of stage, simultaneously, will tell you. Mina was a good actress, and an Italian amante who challenged the Vatican with her dyed blonde hair, smoking habits and taking up with married men. She was banned from the Italian airwaves, yet her popularity prevailed and the RAI had to make a U-turn.
In the second film we see the Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar's representation of this popular song as performed by Miguel Bosé in the film "Tacónes Lejanos" ("High Heels").
Recordarás estos días felices
Recordarás estos días felices
Recordarás el sabor de mis besos
E intentarás en solo momento
Que significa un año de amor
This is contemporary Spain and the tranvestite or drag queen has publicly reclaimed the sentiments and the experience of this song as her own. In this clip Bosé playing the character of Letal performs the song to Marisa Paredes (as Becky de Páramo) in the vertically-enhanced image of her as his idol as she appeared in the 1960s. His stylistic interpretation is far more provocative than the original Páramo would have been allowed to be. She approves. Enjoys it, even. If that were someone's impression of me, I'd probably buy the next round of drinks and throw in some chicken-in-a-basket.
This is contemporary Spain and the tranvestite or drag queen has publicly reclaimed the sentiments and the experience of this song as her own. In this clip Bosé playing the character of Letal performs the song to Marisa Paredes (as Becky de Páramo) in the vertically-enhanced image of her as his idol as she appeared in the 1960s. His stylistic interpretation is far more provocative than the original Páramo would have been allowed to be. She approves. Enjoys it, even. If that were someone's impression of me, I'd probably buy the next round of drinks and throw in some chicken-in-a-basket.
The drag queen is often construed as parody - and some are - but I don't see it as always being the case. The drag queen, who has been with us since possibly before the dawn of time, is not always an highly crayoned - and padded - interpretation of a genetic female. Some drag queens are neither "male" nor "female" -- but a force majeure. They're the ones we remember.
The Spanish word for transvestitite is "travesti" - which comes off like "travesty". In Spanish "parodia". Parody. Therefore, technically, and according to Latin, if you're a drag queen you are - by virtue of definition - incapable of originality. This might well be the circular conundrum of the Venetian crossdresser. While Latin is a very solid language it sometimes smacks of inflexibility.
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