Mexico City, 1975
Forever Lola
Even in the midst of tragedy, the show must go on. I settled into my seat and took it all in. Chandeliers unfurled chrysanthemums of light over the packed auditorium. The Tiffany glass curtain caught the reflection and sent flickers onto the stage. A banner stretching above the proscenium read Dolores del Río, Fifty Years in Film.
Women in embroidered silk peasant dresses and diamond-studded hairpins sat in breathless anticipation. Sixties chic demanded affected hippiness—flowing skirts, artsy purples and pinks—but show biz snobbery required expensive fabrics and real gemstones. To appear counterculture in taffeta was the ultimate triumph. The women eyed each other with curiosity. Who was just outrageous enough? Who was over-the-top? The orchestra began a medley of themes from Lola’s films—Ramona, Bird of Paradise, La cucaracha. The last note faded and the spectators cheered. Some cried, dabbing their eyes with delicate handkerchiefs.
The master of ceremonies appeared. The spectators hushed. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. No one was interested in his tedious introduction. The adoring public already knew all the prizes that Dolores del Río had won—the Serape de Oro, the Medalla de Oro, and on and on. Her fans didn’t need a long, boring speech to tell them about her many accomplishments. All they wanted was Lola.
The fanfare began. The lights dimmed. A spotlight shone center stage. Dolores del Río, wearing a long white gown with a ruffled hem, floated onto the stage. She was seventy-one years old, yet the tiny lines that feathered outward from her eyes were hardly noticeable. When she took her position before the microphone, her smile blossomed, and the Dolores del Río of Ramona was standing before her public. Forever fresh. Forever beautiful. Forever Lola.
“Mis queridos amigos y amigas,” she began. “I look back on a long career in motion pictures—one that began with a small part in a silent Hollywood film named Joanna—a film none of you saw and no one remembers, and it’s just as well.” Laughter.
“The talkies were a disaster for a lot of foreigners,” she went on, “but my mother always taught me to be like a cat and land on my feet. That meant working hard to perfect my English and being willing to adapt to all kinds of roles. Hollywood brought me success and fame, yes, yet I never stopped being who I am—a daughter of Mexico.” Cheers. Applause.
“I worked with wonderful directors in Hollywood, but I longed to act in Spanish, to do something more authentic. When, after the war, our studios began making truly Mexican films, ones that focused on Mexican history, Mexican society, Mexican culture, I yearned to be part of this new cinema. The gringos wanted pure entertainment, but in Mexico, the Golden Age of Cinema was beginning, so I packed my bags and moved back home.”
Thunderous applause. Cries of ¡Viva México, ¡Viva Lola! ¡Viva el cine mexicano!
“Working with virtuosos like Emilio, Gabriel, and Pedro, I was able to make a new kind of socially significant film, a distinctly Mexican film, designed to educate the public about our great nation and address the issues that confront us. For me, acting in such films was a way of serving my country. Now, after many years, I am working on a new film in English, The Children of Sanchez, with the legendary star Anthony Quinn. I still love acting. It has been my life. Sometimes I take small roles just for the joy of performing on a movie set! And no, I am no longer able to play the adolescent seductress as I once did. In The Children of Sanchez, I play the grandmother!”
Lola puckered her lips and made a face. Laughter.
“Aging is inevitable, even in Hollywood. However, age does bring a more balanced sense of the world. Looking back on the past fifty years, I think my greatest achievements took place off-screen. First, I met the man of my dreams, my amazing husband, Lew Riley!” Cheers.
“But without a doubt, the project that has brought me the most satisfaction in recent years is my work on behalf of children. With the support of ANDA, I have established day care centers all over Mexico. These centers are open twenty-four hours a day, at no cost to the parents, so that working mothers in the entertainment industry, whether they’re seamstresses or actresses, will always have a clean, decent place to leave their children. Children’s Place receives children from six months to six years old. Nurses, nannies, teachers and volunteers care for them. This is the first day care center system of its kind in the world. God never gave me children of my own, but the little ones call me Mamá Lolita, and I love it!” Cheers and applause.
“When the newspapers write about me, what do they say? Even at her age she is still beautiful! But what is beauty? Real beauty does not come from creams or lotions, but from thoughts and deeds. When we devote our lives to helping others, we become beautiful. When I die, I want them to write, ‘She was a beautiful woman,’ not because I still have high cheekbones, but because I accomplished something worthwhile during my lifetime.”
She paused. People were on their feet now, applauding, shouting, throwing flowers.
“Before I say good-night to you, there’s one more person I want to mention. Someone who has been at my side since we were both children. She has been my hairdresser, my assistant, but most of all, my friend—a down-to-earth, practical, warm, and loyal soul mate. She stands by me when I need moral support and knocks sense into me when I get carried away with myself. I want to thank my true sister, María Amparo Estrada. Mara, please stand up.”
The applause was so thunderous, I felt dizzy. I didn’t quite understand what was happening. I stood up only for an instant. I had no place in this world of glitz and glamour, and all those eyes staring at me made me reel. I sank back into my seat.
Up on the stage, Lola was beaming, even as tears trickled down her cheeks. She blew me a kiss, then bowed and blew kisses to her fans. Once again, the chandeliers unfurled chrysanthemums of light. Emilio and Gabriel were at her side with enormous bouquets. They’d remained friends all these years, despite everything. The orchestra played “Ramona.”