TRIBUTES

 

Since his death, friends and fans have paid homage to Luis Politti on numerous occasions, many times through very carefully organized events. One such example was the presentation of the book “Luis Politti: cadencias y otros cielos” by Fabián Stolovitsky in 1995, which took place in the main room of the La Plaza theatrical complex in Buenos Aires and hosted four hundred people, among them Miguel Angel Solá, Juana Hidalgo and Juan José Jusid. On April 8, 1998, Sergio Renán, Marilina Ross, Pepe Novoa, Juan Manuel Tenuta, Rodolfo Bracelli and others gathered in honor of what would have been his sixty-fifth birthday at the Margarita Xirgú Theater. The city of Mendoza honored Politti by naming an auditorium in the municipal theater after him. At present, a documentary is being made which will feature over forty-five of his friends and followers paying tribute to him with personal testimony.

 

On July 14^th of this year, the 25^th anniversary of Politti’s death, those who do not want his name to be forgotten plan to host various tributes to his life in Buenos Aires, Mendoza and Madrid.

 

Some examples of pieces written in Politti’s memory follow:

 

 

Politti’s Three Deaths

 

I had the unfortunate privilege of informing everyone who knew you here in Mendoza of your death. I suppose it was fate since you were the first person I worked with when I arrived here. I met you one day, about eighteen to twenty years ago in what was then called “Al café.” And I got to know you – your work in the university cast, your television program (“Don Julio Pérez” I think it was) and your plans to start a radio-theater piece by Alberto Migré in Nihuil. I also knew that you were married and had kids. Not long after, I would go over to your house.  You were the first person in Mendoza to invite me to dinner. And I remember that night well because I walked into your house, looking forward to seeing what you had done and you reproached me for coming ‘here?’ to do theater rather than continuing to struggle in Buenos Aires.

 

Back then, emigrating was the last thing on your mind; you were a television star here with excellent prospects. Dreams. And yet you were headed towards your first death.

 

Having a house, a wife, kids, your mother under your care, and a senile father was too great a burden while trying to practice our profession with dignity. How to keep up the house and afford the food, the clothing…?

 

Those first years of television used and abused you and then let you go. With radio it was the same story – and it is not even worth mentioning the university “salary.” I witnessed everything. “Go on and take it don Luis”… “I will just jot down here what you owe”… “I left home without my wallet, could you…”… To the man at the grocery store and the man at the kiosk, you were Politti, the television star, the radio star and the university man.

 

And the circle kept on closing in…a desperate turn to gambling as a last recourse…and the never-ending agony…then finally, you left, YOU LEFT! Leaving was the only possibility. That was how they killed you the first time.

 

The city that killed you applauded you but would not feed you. She flattered you but would not insure your house, the roof over your head. You were an actor, a luxury too onerous to keep alive.

 

“What was that guy thinking?! Live here with that profession?!” This is the land of vineyards and fruit trees and minerals and real work…What were you thinking? That because they waved to you or clapped for you or asked for your autograph…? Get out of here…

 

And you went, and you died your first death.

 

And your second death started there in Buenos Aires. With a little scholarship to help you through your first days there…and all the prostitution of your talent… go see him, go see her. The idiots of television…the coaches: ‘You need to learn technique’… Not to mention that you had nothing of that homosexual, leading-man look. It was bound to be tough, you know…You only had that thing they call talent to help you become the actor that you were as well as a dignified professional. It was a slow process but you did it. And your name started appearing among those of the truly authentic personalities, and that harsh and generous Buenos Aires adopted you with her applause – an applause whose price would force you to leave pieces of your life behind…

 

You returned a couple times during those years in the capital to visit San Martín, the street your feet had walked up and down so many times before. I remember how those who only yesterday had sacrificed you, were there, submissively, paying you tribute. 

 

You had come to be, then and forever, Luis Politti, AN ARGENTINE ACTOR.

 

And, from the very moment that you won this title, the insanity of the Argentine people would trap you and you would die once again. For the second time! Don’t you ever learn?! Didn’t you realize that their yelling for you and proclaiming you as a professional and an artist wouldn’t be enough? You were so naïve. Nevertheless, your name and talent would be great enough to get you through this second death – enough to help you go on to become a Mexican or a Spaniard and start over, grow old in glory and in peace, doing what we do.

 

In Spain, your third death would find you and hold you captive, definitively. But don’t be too distressed, Luis: on stages everywhere there will always be many of us, trying to make sure that your deaths are never repeated. Amen.

 

                                                                                                                                                 Cristóbol Arnold, Actor (1929-2003)

 

In 1954, Luis Politti had just finished his military service. It was the moment to plan out what he would do next and he did not think twice about asking for help from the director of the School of Music at the Universidad de Cuyo.

 

He had been a terrible student during his rural childhood, during which he spent much of his time riding horseback on his grandfather’s farm, armed with an insolent attitude. He had never wanted to go to school.

 

He made educational amends as he crossed the threshold of adolescence. While completing high school, he delved into his study of music. Like many other children in his neighborhood in Mendoza, he had started to learn piano at a young age. A woman who lived on the same block offered classes in her home, though more as a distraction than for anything else. Most of her students gave her a little cash gift at will for the holidays – those who were serious that is.

 

From piano, he moved on to the clarinet and was sought out by young groups and more than one orchestra that would play at the town dances. Later a pulmonary affliction would force him to once again change instruments and this time he chose the contrabass, one of those enormous instruments whose owners envy violinists when it comes time to move them from one place to another.

 

The Director of the School of Music at the Universidad de Cuyo grew to respect and very much value Politti’s acting at the vocational theater in Mendoza. He did not doubt for a second recommending him to Galina Tolmacheva, who had trained under Stanislavsky and mastered his method. The brilliant young man, just out of the service, would become her beloved pupil.

 

In 1955, Galina Tolmacheva left and Politti, still a student, was given a paid position. This would give him a means to survive but certainly did not eradicate any economic hardship. The situation in his house was similar to that of any other supported by the wages of a blue-collar worker.

 

In 1962, Mendoza finally started its own television network. At that time, Politti was the most well known local actor, squabbled over by independent casts, respected by the critics and followed by the public. Television devalued his status as the intellectual actor who had a halo over his head did all the famous playwrights’ works. On the other hand, it gave him a popularity he had never dreamed of achieving in his home province.

 

He was the big hit on the first live program to air on the local television station, when he played his character “Don Julián Pérez Etcétera.” The latter was a retired widower from Spain who carried on indescribable “dialogues” with a small bird, his only companion. The success he achieved on television in Mendoza pushed him to give it a shot in Buenos Aires, the city that had already turned its back on him on a couple of occasions. During the first half of 1964, he made his definitive move to Buenos Aires, Argentina’s capital. This time he went with a scholarship and endorsement in hand, thanks to the generosity of the National Arts Fund. Pedro Escudero, who had seen Politti’s work in Mendoza, gave the latter his first opportunity on “El vicario.” That was the key that would open the door for the actor.

 

The rest proceeded in a hasty manner. He debuted on Channel 13 with a cameo appearance – a sort of test run for him in front of the camera – on “Las tres caras de Malvina.”

 

That small intervention would push Luis Sandrini’s wife to offer Politti a position as “permanent collaborator.” Later would come his memorable work in three programs: a series by Rodolfo Bebán,  “Las grandes novelas” and the great hit soap opera, “Rolando Rivas, taxista.” At that point he had already joined the full-time cast at the San Martín Theater, where he would remain for five years. His peers deemed him “wanted” when it came time to putting a cast together. His commitment to his profession was as strong as his commitment to his life, and his life was one that would never sell out, not even when the price meant exile from his country. And his exile was one he could not manage; it would drive him to his death.

 

                                                                                                                                                                     Roberto Quirno


 

It’s hard to be an actor…

 

I have some unpleasant news I wish to share with all of you that I am sure will move and concern you. It is truly unthinkable that human beings still treat each other in this way.

 

Actor Juan del Castillo – for whom I ask ample solidarity – was detained and later imprisoned for making fun of the governor of the province of Catamarca in a play where he played the part of a mother rocking a goat to sleep – a candid allusion to the mentioned governor. This took place on December 14, 1773.

 

It is not easy to be an actor in Argentina. It has never been easy.

 

Let’s hope for more tolerance from here on out.

 

On May 1, 1804, the Coliseo Provisional was inaugurated on Rivadavia and Reconquista in Buenos Aires and Ana Josefa Echeverría, among others, participated in the large cast. This would not be newsworthy except that the mentioned Ana Josefa was a slave, contracted to act. Her pay, to be given after two years of acting, would be her freedom, which she was never awarded because her contract was interrupted by the English invasions (it’s always the English!). A few years later she would die in absolute poverty. A slave.

 

The life of the Argentine actor has not been at all easy.

 

On May 24, 1812, Luis Ambrosio Morante put on a function of his production: “El 20 y 5 de Mayo.”¹ All proceeds from that function were donated by Morante to help pay the expenses of the libertarian campaigns. The donation was accepted by the town hall and put to use in defending the country. A responsible and committed Argentine actor.

 

On October 6, 1858, José Podestá was born in Montevideo, Uruguay. “Don Pepe.” “Pepino el 88.” His siblings, Pedro, Juan Vicente, Graciana, Antonio, Domingo, Amadea and Cecilio Pablo (“Pablo the Great”), would make up the founding family of a new era in Argentine theater and Pepe would commit himself and his family to defending his colleagues and their theatrical forms.

 

Faced with the occupation-invasion of Argentine theaters by foreign companies and the displacement of the Argentine actor, he did not hesitate to evaluate the situation and use texts written by national authors. Entire families of actors leading the life of unemployment would become subject matter for Pepe, who, years later would enter the political arena with his “Pepino el 88” characterization. He was a true mentor to the theater group. He developed and directed the pantomime act in Gutiérrez Juan Moreira’s serial story, which would later gain notoriety that has lasted up to the present when text was added to the performance. It debuted on April 10, 1886 in Chivilcoy. That version was taken all over the country thanks to the entire Podestá family. The latter would continue on until offered a theater in Buenos Aires, at which point they formed two groups with different esthetic criteria that would wind up dividing them definitively. Pepe-José remained with the traditional ‘gaucho’ repertoire and Gerónimo moved on to what he believed the new century would demand. Two ideas that turned into movements that would be repeated in the future, under different circumstances, but at similar sorts of crossroads. One spoke of modernizing the repertoire; the other wanted to delve deeper into identity and tradition.

 

Not at all easy to be an actor in our country.

 

A comprehensive education is obviously extremely important for an actor, especially if he or she is dealing with productions involving complex psychologies, where for example, passions burn and the characters don’t express themselves. Theater is full of extraordinary phenomena. Nature, full of foresight and wisdom, has granted some privileged actors with what has been called – disparagingly by some – intuition. In the difficult art of provoking emotions and doing comedy, this intuition often advantageously replaces pure book learning.

 

The actor and the method. Elías Alippi, one of the Podestá actors, had a method…But it is practically impossible for a work methodology crafted by an Argentine actor to be recognized! Stanislavsky, yes; Grotowsky too. Polish actors – why not? Alippi…when?

 

She was born in Los Toldos and she lived in Junín. She wanted to be an actress and she became one. But above all, she wanted to be Evita and she was. For that, because of that role, because of that production, she was vilified, insulted, and stolen and stashed away after her death before she could find rest and peace. Her people adored her and still do. The world came to know her thanks to an opera done by the English (it’s always the English!), which gave her new life as an actress and a personality. She was able to return home to her country, wrapped up in music, because she had been accepted outside of Argentina. Today, almost no one remembers that she wanted to be an actress. We do. And hence, this tribute goes out to her.

 

How hard it is to be an actor in Argentina.

 

“I was born on March 27, 1901. As you can see, I walk through life a bit behind the times and though I would have liked to walk a little further ahead, the role of forerunner scares me.” These were the words of the man who was known by the people as our best popular poet. Those in theater knew him as Armando’s younger brother. Others still did not even give him this distinction.

 

We might say that Enrique – the actor, the poet, the man – practically started dying and resuscitating the instant he was born, and that he was loved and hated. They could not forgive his love for his people and so they crucified him. He died of a disease that kills more and more people everyday – he died of grief. The tabloids converted him into the dictatorship’s pampered propagandist and as a result, his friends and acquaintances from the artistic world started excluding him. The middle class and liberalism refused to pardon his loyalty to the working class, the cabecitas and the chusmas –  to the gronchos, as they say nowadays. 

 

He was besieged with insults, anonymous letters and phone calls and his own greetings and communications were ignored. Everyone against Mordisquito, Don Quijote without his armor, “el Flaquito narigón”²…until finally, at 50 years of age, he succumbed in the shadows, guilty of having remained loyal to his ideas. Enrique and the few pounds he carried on his body succumbed but his tangos, his thoughts, his work, the actor himself did not because Discépolo still bites and comes to haunt routine, ordinary and mediocre dreams.

 

It is hard to be an actor in Argentina.

 

Oscar Ferrigno and Luis Politti would come to know that too. Oscar was the beloved representative of the independent theater movement and that was no coincidence – he had inspired Fray Mocho (the group and the actor – one individual person) regarding the training of a theater actor; the public had showered him with exaltation, praise and respect; and Fray Mocho’s annual tours around the country had left an unforgettable impression on the numerous groups that continue working today in the shadow of that example. 

 

Afterwards, Oscar moved into television and it was there that slowly, all that he had done that had been important and useful to human beings, including him, was slowly erased. He himself was an accessory in that process. His message and life purpose were converted into a languishing exposition of images that had nothing to do with that vibrant director of yesteryear who, exploding with ideas for his country, had inspired one of the two most noble movements that Argentine theater would experience.

 

After all the beauty he held within had been squeezed out, he was banned because of what he had formerly thought and done and then forced into the harsh reality of exile. He would return to his estranged homeland later, only to die.

 

And Luis, “el gordo³ Politti,” died of sorrow once the light had already shone bright. He suffered a double exile. He one day left his native Mendoza behind and went to Buenos Aires to make it as an actor. He made the choice. He left the pure air and sunshine behind in his desire to give of himself to others and would continue in his search until the point of exhaustion. One day his heart meekly refused to continue the fight, so far from home, and he quieted down forever. 

 

How hard it is to be an actor in our country.

 

For this reason, and because, despite such difficulty, they chose to be here and were able to discover a method that could not be copied, we pay them homage. Yes, to this method, that puts the human being, the people and their way of life first, and to the actor.

 

During the last 100 years of the Colegio Podestá of La Plata, during the last 100 years of the death-life of José Hernández and his Martín Fierro, our thanks go out to all the people in theater that laid our foundation and also to those who disseminated their art throughout the country, thinking always of the people.

 

It is difficult to be an actor in my country, but it is also so beautiful.

 

                                                                                                                                                                    Carlos Carella (1925-1997)

 

¹Note from translator: May 25 was the day of triumph for the Argentine Revolution against Spanish rule

²Note from translator: “flaquito” is an affectionate nickname referring to a man who is slim or skinny and “narigón” means big-nosed
³Note from translator: “gordo” is an affectionate nickname referring to someone who is chubby or fat