Letter Nine | 11/28 | Russ

Cape Town

Dear Lack,

You ever wish you could live forever?

This is a question posed by Luisa (Maribel Verdú) in Alfonso Cuaron’s road trip film Y tu mamá también. Luisa asks the question as she, Tenoch (Diego Luna), and Julio (Gael García Bernal)—the three main characters—reach the end of their journey: a secluded Mexican beach named “Heaven’s Mouth,” their very own Eden.

This scene is a brief moment of idyllic respite in a film otherwise marred by disorder. Y tu mamá también is messy—filled with sex, hedonism, joy, vulgarity, love, betrayal, death. Inasmuch as it a story about two teenage boys trying (and, it should be said, failing hilariously) to seduce an older woman, it is also a story about Mexico, a country trying to find itself as it copes with corruption and classism. It’s raw, unwaveringly honest. It’s my favorite film. 

I remember the first time I saw Y tu mamá también: on a warm Monday evening in August last year. The Clinton Street Theater in southeast Portland was commemorating the 20th anniversary of the film’s release. I hadn’t seen a film in a theater in over a year. I don’t remember details: whether I wore a mask (most likely) or if the Clinton checked vaccination cards (surprisingly, I don’t think so). But I do remember the film’s indelible mark on my mind. Y tu mamá también awakened a new interest in film as a form, as literature.

As the film opens, we see Tenoch and Julio, two best friends whose girlfriends have left for a summer in Europe. Though they preach fidelity, the two boys are in fact eager to spend their summer drinking, smoking, and sleeping around as much as possible. Tenoch is the son of a corrupt government official; Julio, the son of a working-class single mother. In front of one another, this doesn’t seem to matter; they are at ease, their friendship loving. However, through both image and narration, Cuaron offers the audience moments that defy this illusion, such as when Tenoch, sharing a bathroom with Julio, lifts the toilet seat with his foot before peeing. Tenoch can’t bring himself to touch it with his hand. His best friend, in his eyes, is dirty.

Tenoch and Julio meet Luisa (Tenoch’s cousin by marriage) at an opulent wedding thrown by Tenoch’s parents. It is here that the two boys tell Luisa about “Heaven’s Mouth,” a beautiful beach they plan to visit. Luisa is married and politely refuses. A few days later, however, Luisa calls Tenoch and asks to join in.

I’m fascinated by Cuaron’s narration of tragic realism. The death of a migrant worker is one example. Another: Tenoch, while on the roadtrip, realizes he’d never visited the home of his nanny Leo, a woman he called “Mommy” until he was four years old (a neat detail: the woman who plays Leo, Liboria Rodríguez, was Cuaron’s nanny, a woman he later honored in his film Roma). And: the off-screen rift between Tenoch and Julio, their class difference. Cuaron reminds us of the harsh realities of the world, lest we get sucked too far into our protagonist’s Epicurean daydream.

As it must, the internalized contempt, jealousy, and anger Tenoch and Julio have felt for each other boils to the surface. It is clear that they will never be friends again. Only thanks to the strength of Luisa, who chastises Tenoch and Julio for behaving like immature pissants, does our trio reach the ocean. Here, they meet a fisherman (Chuy) and his family, who take them on a boat trip to “Heaven’s Mouth,” a secluded beach that Tenoch and Julio thought they made up to seduce Luisa. The boys play soccer with Chuy on the beach, who imagines himself as former Mexican goalkeeper Jorge Campos. Everyone laughs; the moment is more meaningful than anything Tenoch and Julio dreamed about earlier in the film. It is a moment of pleasure. It doesn’t last nearly long enough.

As Chuy ferries the trio back to the beach where he found them, the narration cuts in: at the end of the year Chuy and his family will have to leave their home to make way for the construction of an exclusive hotel. Chuy will never fish again. “Heaven’s Mouth” as we see it will cease to exist. The daydream will end. Reality will set in.  

Such has been my experience with the World Cup. I mentioned in my first letter that I wasn’t looking forward to this World Cup, that I worried the only beauty would come from the shared experience of our project. But I was wrong. There have been times I have been enthralled by the beauty of play, when watching has been pleasurable. I don’t know if there’s ever been some unspoken rule about not discussing the matches outside of our letters. If there was, I’ve already broken it twice. Once, after Messi scored against Mexico, and again as Spain was playing Germany. Both times I texted you because I had to. I had to know if you were experiencing the same joy I was.

After reading your excellent last letter about Messi, I know that you must have. As much criticism as this tournament deserves (which is more then we can say), the play on the field still warrants lavish attention. Spain’s Pedri, for example, plays idyllic soccer. Like Messi, he floats in space, is so unbelievably poised, moves in slow motion. The Spain/Germany match was a wonderful 1-1 draw. Only after the final whistle blew did I start to think more critically again about the tournament. Reality began to set in. 

I read yesterday that Qatar spent over $200 billion dollars on the World Cup. While the most obvious reason for this is that it allows Qatar to rebrand itself, pragmatically I wonder what will happen to the stadiums after the tournament is over. How many will be used ever again? Does the romance of the play on the field influence the physical space?

An assignment I give my students at the beginning of each school year is called “Story of Place.” Students are required to write, in as much detail as possible, about a place that is special or sacred to them. Invariably, wealthier students write about holidays; less wealthy students will write about something smaller: their bedroom, their grandmother’s kitchen, their cul-de-sac. Almost always the latter are stronger pieces of writing. A piece about a resort in the Maldives—though glamorous—lacks the texture, history, and sensory detail of a lived-in space.

I guess what I’m trying to get at is how will this World Cup be remembered aesthetically? Does this even make sense?

In this piece (also from Lit Hub), poet Ross Gay remembers the basketball courts—or secluded hoops—that he loved. An excerpt I particularly like:

“And the beautiful old gym where I went to college, which they replaced with an ugly new one. And the beautiful old gym where I went to grad school, which they replaced with an ugly new one…All the beautiful old courts I have known that they have replaced with shitty new ones.”

It makes me think about all the soccer fields we’ve played on: the grass field on San Juan; the sunken field near the University of Washington in the middle of summer; Newberg, where we had to climb over the fence each time; Chapman Elementary in Northwest Portland where the field was diagonally canted; and on and on. 

But the most beautiful must be Gilbert Creek Park, the space that became the genesis of our love for soccer. Even though the goal was muddy in the winter, hard dirt in the summer; even though there were holes in the grass that today would surely tear my ACL; even the fence behind the goal had a hole, which we always seemed to nail dead-on, forcing another awkward, apologetic “Our ball is in your backyard”; even though the net around the goal didn’t fit right, leaving holes in the top-right and top-left corners, which we, of course, aimed for (in my memory, only Nate ever squeezed a shot through); even though our field was anything but glamorous, and instead very much lived in, it was our field and it was beautiful and playing there made me want to live forever.

Much love,

Russ