A film by Rodrigo Bellot

Released internationally in 2009, Rodrigo Bellot's latest film, Perfidia, had been eagerly awaited in Bolivia long before its first screening in the country in early March 2012. Bellott's justification for this delay was his desire to be present during the film's premiere, to show his appreciation for the support that his compatriots have given him throughout his career. The director is regarded as something of a national treasure in Bolivia. While he went to film school in New York, he is originally a camba and is best known for writing, producing and directing the independent films Sexual Dependency (a coming-ofage drama, 2003) and Who Killed the White Llama? (an on-the-road comedy, 2007).

Perfidia stars Gonzalo Valenzuela, whose acting debut in En la Cama was a tribute to Bellott. Interestingly, it was this actor himself who inspired the director to write Perfidia. Either Valenzuela was the protagonist, or the film wouldn't be made. Fate was on Bellott's side. Back in 2007, when he was approached with the script, Valenzuela had just experienced the same emotional state that Bellott wanted to put on screen. His four-month-overdue decision to accept the offer is something that not only Bellott is extremely grateful for, but that we too, as audience members, appreciate. What Bellott originally wrote as a personal exorcism, on screen provides emotional catharsis for his audience.

As the title suggests, Perfidia is a tale of amorous treachery. We follow the protagonist to one night in a hotel room, where he aims to put an end to his pain in bidding a final farewell to his lover. One man, one location, one desire. The simplicity of the piece is impressive: there are two minutes of dialogue in the entire film, with just three songs accompanying the otherwise sparse natural sounds. The film opens with the penetrating lyrics: ""No one understands what I suffer"". With this, we are transported into Valenzuela's inner world, experiencing his desolation, his solitude, his tormented sorrow. We see the road opening in front of us, the stark white of the snow-covered landscape, and see it as though we were the passenger in the bus. The power of the opening negative haunts us, staying with us as we are faced with the steady raindrops which blur our vision, the sense of death implied in the view of winter, the winding road which leads to an unknown destination . . . The director's use of pathetic fallacy is clichéd but effective: we become the protagonist.

We soon learn that nothing, with Bellott, is an accident. A dance scene, made resonant with Luis Miguel's ""Ahora te puedes marchar"", could superficially be interpreted as comic relief in a film which is intense and often quite laboured in its real-time movements. The lyrics, however, belie such a false reading: they are essential to the telling of the story. In what is one of the most unexpectedly powerful scenes of the film, its dark irony immortalises the protagonist's poignant sincerity. Bellott's achievement comes in exposing the protagonist's vulnerability in a profoundly sensitive way, yet he manages to portray it as a form of bravery. Valenzuela's masculinity is an ironic foil to his childlike weakness, something which is ultimately transparent despite his humorous posing to the camera. What shocks us most, however, is the realisation that Valenzuela is not the only vulnerable person in the room: we too are confronted with our innermost vulnerabilities, and this can be an uncomfortable identification to make.

Whilst addressing the audience at his film's premiere, Bellott cited Gandhi: ""Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it."" For Bellot, it was imperative that he make this film: it prevented him from ""drowning in desperation and solitude"". The film was a deeply personal and emotional release for Bellott, but even as he himself asserts, ""the film is not mine"". When released onto that cinema screen, the film becomes the spectator's. In its space of silence and reflection, the viewers project their own perfidies onto the screen. As the critic Lucía Querejazu explains, the viewer is not required to bring any prior knowledge to the cinema, it suffices to simply bring your own personal story. Indeed, in this sacred cinematic space, Bellott forces us to question and search using the same zeal and desperation that characterises Perfidia. In pushing the resources at his disposal to their limit—by deliberately forging a dialectic relationship with his audience—Bellott gives us the tools to make the film our own and, in doing so, arguably gives the film the profundity that so marks it. This is the greatest irony of Bellott's Perfidia: it is presented as the director's most personal film, yet it has transcended his biography to become his most universal. The emotion imparted is deeply entrenched in all human experience—fundamentally, the desire to love and to be loved.

JUANITA LA CARIÑOSA
CARMEN ROSA LA CAMPEONA
YOLANDA LA AMOROSA
CLAUDINA LA MALA
MARTHA LA ALTEÑA

Cholitas luchadoras: the strapping heroines of El Alto's weekly cholita wrestling. Every Sunday tourists and locals alike pack the Multifunctional Centre in El Alto to watch the ladies pound their way to victory. As queues advance well beyond the entrance and the stadium fills up, it is clear that this activity has become an ingrained part of the culture and society of El Alto, with many families attending religiously each week. But cholita wrestling is difficult to define. Beautiful and brutal, should we understand it as a competitive sport or a staged circus act?

The idea for fighting cholitas originated from the ""Titanes del Ring"", a popular group of male Bolivian wrestlers that fight in El Alto. Their sport is an example of professional lucha libre wrestling, which has developed throughout a number of Spanish-speaking countries and has been taking place in Bolivia for over 50 years. In 2001, as the audience began to fizzle away and show numbers took a blow, Juan Mamani, president of the Titans and wrestler himself, began to think of creative ways to recapture his fans. It is these beginnings that can cast doubt on the authenticity of the show as a sport. Mamani first thought of introducing fighting dwarves, then moved on to wrestling women. This somewhat bizarre progression indicates little respect for dwarves or women: the vision was of a popular freak show. Nevertheless, Mamani's open audition call was surprisingly well received, bringing in around 60 respondents. With the introduction of indigenous Aymaran women, Mamani's aim to attract more fans to watch professional fighting proved successful.

Several years have passed and the event now sees over 1000 fans enter its doors each week. People from all over the world come to witness the immaculate fighting cholitas, dressed in their many tiered skirts, flat shoes and colourful shawls, balancing bowler hats on their plaited hair. Audiences find the choreographed acts of the lucha libre fighters entertaining, especially when the fights involve a ""good"" cholita versus a ""bad"" cholita, and the crowd has the opportunity to become involved and take sides. The show's popularity is evident in regular attendance of local Bolivians from El Alto. They too are indigenous and suffer from the daily hardship associated with living in an impoverished area. For these spectators, the lucha libre performance is a form of cheap diversion, allowing them to forget about their problems and daily struggles, relax with their family and come together as a community.

Nonetheless, to some the idea of women wrestling remains totally incomprehensible, especially when they engage in fights against men twice their size, something that is often described as grotesque and unwatchable. So why do the cholita women choose to become involved in these physically demanding and violent stunt fights? After having visited the cholita spectacle twice it became evident to me that these women enjoy the experience just as much as their laughing audience. Although cholitas are paid around $13 per fight, this is not sufficient for them to wrestle full-time and the women are obligated to work in other fields. Most are out all day and every day selling their goods, and often have a family to look after back at home. Perhaps it is precisely because there is no living to be made from it, that being part of the Titans is always a passion and never a chore. Training and preparing for the shows allow the women to relax, have fun, and above all, feel that they are more than simply housewives and street vendors. Likewise, it is difficult to watch cholita wrestling without admiring their immense skill and physical strength. Of course the disparity in size between male and female fighters can sometimes be distressing. But it is impressive to witness those women who have reached an equal or greater skill level than the men, and are able to fight back just as hard. Nowadays in El Alto, the male fighters are just a warm-up act for cholita wrestling. Whatever dubious preconceptions female wrestling may have sprung from, the women have made a male-dominated profession their own, and are popular for it.

But it does not end with popularity. The pride and earnestness with which cholitas are motivated to partake mark its passage from freak show to serious sport, it seems likely that this phenomenon will continue to grow. Both times I experienced the fighting craze a cholita woman emerged from the fight with her face covered in blood. It is difficult to make out which of these wounds are real or part of the entertainment. But it is clear that the women recognise this sport as a physically tough activity: injuries are expected. When asked why she decided to become a wrestler, Chela la Maldita replied ""I like all sports but wrestling is my favorite."" She admits that it could be seen to be grotesque at times, but ultimately it's part of the game. Like any other professional sport it is competitive, and requires intensive training.

Aspects of the wrestling still retain the circus show characteristics that it began with: the costumes, the story characters, and most importantly the pre-determined fight outcomes. But the concept has come a long way since Mamani's dwarf dreams, and cholitas are now admired as true professionals. Not only are they respected by the audience in the same way that male wrestlers are, but by wearing their indigenous and overtly female outfits they also distinguish their form of wrestling. Rather than competing in a male field, they have carved a new niche for themselves, demonstrating how they can fight hard, win fights and become cholita champions.

The lucha libre performances in El Alto are without doubt the largest and most famous examples of the cholita sport. However, the security guard of the event confirmed that currently it takes place throughout La Paz. I was also able to find evidence that the National Wrestling Alliance holds events with the fighting cholitas in Potosí. Cholita wrestlers have attracted great attention to the wrestling scene in Bolivia, and their popularity is spreading throughout the country. With increased interest from world media, and the introduction of leaflet distribution and other forms of advertising, it seems likely that this phenomenon will continue grow. From its birth as a whimsical experiment ten years ago, we may be witnessing the escalation of an important part of future Bolivian sporting culture.