La Lucha/The Struggle
a film by Duncan MacLeod

Anxious observers watch in trepidation as masked villains appear through heavy leather curtains. Anyone who crosses their path will be thrown brutally to the ground. Trepidation turns to awe as the villains enter the ring, and begin their melee at the Anaheim Indoor Swap Meet Arena. One masked man, with a mullet, dressed as a hybrid between Superman and a Dia de Los Muertos skeleton, turns to a man in a cowboy hat, who cries out an insult in Spanish. The skeleton leers at the cowboy, then blows him a kiss. The cowboy blushes and sits back down. His children stand and cry out foul-mouthed insults to the skeleton, hoping for a little of the attention that their father got.

Welcome to the world of Lucha Libre, the Mexican form of professional wrestling. It’s a close cousin of the American form popularized by the WWF. But scratch the surface, and the similarities melt away like butter on a hot churro.

The most notable difference: the mask. Many of the greatest stars of Lucha Libre have chosen to cover their face with a mask, hiding their identity, in the interests of creating a character that is larger than life. This tradition can be traced back to the earliest days of wrestling in Mexico. A retired Army colonel returned to his homeland, bringing with him a quasi-vaudevillian band of American wrestlers. He was delightfully astonished when his little troupe played to sold-out shows in Mexico City. The mask phenomenon started with one American wrestler named "El Enmascarado," who wore a full head mask in the ring. This new prop somehow spoke to the psyche of the macho Mexican culture, for almost overnight, scores of masked imitators popped up and played to packed houses all over Mexico. The masks were Technicolor homages to folk heroes, Greek myths, Catholic saints, and Aztec gods. The men who wore them became real-life superheroes, with names like "El Santo" (The Saint) or "Mil Mascaras" (Man of 1,000 Masks). They became famous not just for wrestling, but for the movies they starred in. And they were never seen in public without their masks. And so Lucha Libre was born.

While American wrestling tends to emphasize holds and loads of verbal posturing, Lucha Libre depends on high-flying acrobatics to keep its audience involved. The wrestlers tend to be much lighter and more agile than their American counterparts. They defy gravity – flying from the top ropes like masked doves, into the arms of their opponent.

Of course the strongest difference is cultural – Lucha Libre is intensely Mexican. The matches are announced in Spanish, the fans cry out their insults to the "rudos" ("heels") and shout loving praise for the "tecnicos" (good guys) in Spanish. The rules, the conventions, the traditions are all innately understood by the Mexican audience, while the few non-Latino audience members who wander in are usually left scratching their heads as to what just happened.

While Lucha Libre enjoys a popularity rivaled only by soccer in Mexico, here in the United States it is virtually unknown. An anomaly in ultra-conservative white bread Orange County, the World Power Wrestling league (WPW) is an outpost of Mexican culture amid the wasteland of American Pop culture. Martin Marin, the promoter of WPW, runs a small school for young wrestlers who hope to become "Luchadores" – wrestlers in the Lucha Libre tradition. Some of his young wrestlers are already wearing masks and wrestling under names like "Silver Tyger" and "Black Angel." Most of the wrestlers refuse to wear masks. They give various excuses: "It’s too hot!" "I can’t see!" "I don’t want to cover up this beautiful face!" – but the wrestlers who do wear masks suffer the discomfort with pride.

La Lucha, the seminal documentary on this topic, explores the larger world of Lucha Libre through the touchstone of the WPW league and school, where the tradition is being carefully preserved. The wrestlers themselves have learned an art form that will gain them great notoriety and instant respect, should they ever venture across the border back to Mexico. Some hope to move on to the WWF – a shot at American stardom. The dreams and struggles of these young wrestlers are carefully documented and brought to light through the camera eye.

The documentary also examines the racial tensions inherent in a cross-cultural sport like wrestling. There are a number of young white wrestlers who have chosen to study Lucha Libre. Although they have adopted the Mexican sport, they are often surprised to find out that they are immediately pegged as heels, or bad guys, simply because of their race. The audience screams out racial epithets like "bolillo!" (White bread!), to the apparent astonishment of the wrestlers. Oddly enough, some Mexican wrestlers have chosen to become heels— bad guys— because they have light enough skin to pretend to be "gueros" (whiteys). They wrestle under names like "Gringo Loco" or "El Guero."

In Anaheim, unique heroes have sprouted up who perfectly speak to the psyche of the mixed-culture audience. One of these is "Cholo," the Chicano gangster. He enters the ring to the beat of a foul-mouthed gangster rap. The audience goes wild with cheers. He wears no mask, just a bald head, goatee, cut-off Dickies pants and a sleeveless undershirt. He is the portal between two worlds – Mexico and the US. He is a new breed of American folk hero, giving a legitimate face to the Chicano culture in which the audience is steeped. While Cholo is a good-guy north of the border, whenever he heads down to Tijuana to wrestle, he is greeted with boos and jeers reserved for the heels. In Tijuana, he represents a Mexican who has turned his back on his culture and his country to become the gangster.

No documentary on wrestling would be complete without a thorough examination of the homoerotic undertones inherent in the sport. Lucha Libre is particularly unabashed when it comes to gays in the ring. The most prominent of these "gay" wrestlers is "Rosa Salvaje," the drag queen. S/he enters the ring to a pulsating disco song, in a pink teddy, with a hot pink mask and feather boas, shouting, "I am gay!" Unlike "normal" wrestlers, Rosa has magical powers. S/he can extract herself from a tricky hold by dry-humping the leg of the offender. S/he can scare away would-be attackers with an outstretched, cupped hand aimed towards the crotch. Rosa’s greatest super-power is "el beso de la muerte" or "the kiss of death" – If s/he manages to get a wrestler into a headlock and kiss them on the lips, they are essentially disqualified for the duration of the match. The audience adores Rosa. They start chanting "Beso! Beso!" (Kiss him! Kiss him!) from the moment s/he enters the ring. Oddly enough, outside the ring, Rosa lives a very sedate heterosexual life, with a wife and children.

Look for La Lucha in 2003. Principle photography started in March 2002.

Contact: Duncan MacLeod (213) 482-9749

mcpunkin@yahoo.com

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