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| Poster for Coco, from the film's Twitter. |
I'm always looking
for ways to translate the work (and play) of what history is when teaching,
perhaps because it took me such a long time to figure it out for myself. The practice of history is deceptively simple-- read/look at/listen to things; write about them; repeat-- but the significance and the everyday reality of this process is difficult to explain. It is best experienced by example and, I think, only
evident through piecemeal glimpses:
- Reading diverse kinds of scholarship which
use different sources to perform different functions, and trying to take apart
their pieces to see how the evidence makes the journey to argument.
- Trying to
assemble your own narrative through looking at primary source documents,
whether for a paper or just trying to find out who lived in your apartment
years before you did.
- Seeing hints of historical
practice as reflected in fiction/media/everyday activities.
This last is what I took a stab at in my post about the song Burn in Hamilton, and it's what I want to take up again in reference to the new and widely praised Pixar film Coco. I saw Coco last week and was struck by the way in which the protagonist's journey suggests the paths we take when researching the past. This isn't a review-- great short reviews of the film by Latino film
critics can be found at Remezcla, which I highly recommend. There are also a few major spoilers, so go see Coco first
(newly stripped of its saccharine Frozen short, by this point-- so enjoy
the extra 22 minutes of free time!).
In brief-- 12-year-old Miguel, a boy born into a family of shoemakers, wishes to become a musician
like his idol, Ernesto de la Cruz. Unfortunately, he must take up his passion
in secret, as his family forbade music in all forms after his great-great grandfather left
his wife, Imelda, to pursue a musical career generations ago. Miguel looks at a photograph from the family ofrenda and comes to believe that de la Cruz is his great-great grandfather. Determined to
convince his family to accept his musical ambitions, the boy takes de la Cruz's guitar
to compete in a local Dia de los Muertos talent show. However, he contracts a
family curse which can only be broken by a blessing from a family member. Miguel finds his
family quickly among the skeletal but friendly dead, but Imelda will only break the curse if she can bind him to a
promise not to play music. Coco follows
Miguel's journey through the Land of the Dead as he allies with Héctor, who
claims to know de la Cruz; tries to avoid Imelda and her powerful alebrije; and
finds the only family member who he believes will bless him with no
restrictions-- de la Cruz himself. Along the way, Miguel not only makes
connection with long-deceased family members-- he also uncovers truths which
lead him to change the present in ways both personal and far-reaching.
In many ways,
Miguel's journey echoes that of a historian. When he encounters his family in
the cemetery and follows them to the Land of the Dead, the passage between the
two is rendered as a bridge made of marigold petals.
In addition to the literal
role it serves as a temporary connection between life and death, the divide
between the Land of the Dead and that of the living can function as a metaphor
on a variety of different levels. Film critic Carlos Aguilar argues that the
divide echoes immigrant experiences, caught on opposite sides of a border, and
that the film itself serves as a place of connection:
Coco is a bridge between those
who are gone and those who remain, whether that means they’ve departed forever
or just find themselves apart. It’s a bridge made of bright cempasúchil,
centuries of hardship, economic migration, reconnections, newfound appreciation
for the past, and culture depicted through animation. It’s a bridge between
Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, between relatives that never met because time
or laws didn’t allow it, between English and Spanish, between rural Mexico and
chilangos like me, and between Hollywood and Latinos.
I suggest that the
bridge also works as a different metaphor, a powerful symbol of the divide, yet
continual connection between the present and the past.
As a result of his journey, Miguel's relationship with the people of the past changes. At
first, the ancestors on the family ofrenda represent only obligation to
Miguel-- building blocks in the creation of a roadblock to his future as a
musician. But when he journeys to the Land of the Dead, he meets them-- not
fully as they were in life, but in skeletal forms which nonetheless retain a
great deal of personality. Likewise, historical research frequently begins with
a brush up against the past's seeming impenetrability. How can we possibly get
a sense of the reality of the past when its citizens seem so inscrutable and irrelevant to us?
When their choices make no sense? When the repercussions of their actions seem
inevitable and set in stone? Yet analyzing the sources they left behind help to
break that shell and engage with the past. By crossing into their realm, Miguel grows to understand these people and their motivations-- the pain Imelda experienced that led to her musical moratorium, Hector's regret at never making it back home to his family, and de la Cruz's ruthless, violent pragmatism absent from the existing popular knowledge about the man.
Miguel's research also uncovers larger truths that were lost to both the living world and the dead. His pursuit of de la Cruz ends in victory,
when the glamorous musician is thrilled to have a great-great- grandson and
lavishes him with attention. However, this quickly sours when Héctor arrives
and realizes that his death was caused not by food poisoning, but by regular
poisoning, courtesy of his former musical partner de la Cruz. The much-lauded
songs were actually Hector's stolen work. De la Cruz, determined to protect his
reputation, orders both Héctor and Miguel tossed into a pit. It is there that
Miguel realizes that Héctor, not de la Cruz, is in fact his long-lost
great-great-grandfather. Thus, his investigation leads to knowledge of who
Imelda's husband was, unknown to any of the living (except Coco, Héctor's
daughter), the murder, unknown to all but de la Cruz, and Héctor's intention to
return home, unknown to Imelda and the Rivera family. But how to prove all of this to the living
world? Here, documentation becomes critical: when Miguel returns home, his
rendition of "Remember Me" sparks Mamá Coco's memory of her father
and leads her to reveal photos and documentation of his creative work on the
songs attributed to de la Cruz.
Most significantly,
Miguel uses his research on the past to change the present. A side note here:
There are two popular responses people commonly have when they hear you study
history. The first is, "What are you going to do with that? Teach?" and
the other is "So what do you think about 'revisionist history'?"
Despite the bad press this term gets, revision is a necessary part of
historical scholarship; if it weren't, we'd have no reason to keep researching
or writing anything. At the film's end, we see that one year after the Miguel's
return to the land of the living, both personal and public life have changed.
The monument to de la Cruz is amended with a critical sign, and Héctor honored by the community instead for his work; Héctor's
photo is restored to the Rivera family ofrenda, and Miguel plays music for his
family. Coco's ending suggests that a
research journey to the "Land of the Dead" can and should end with
not only revision but with a rectification: a public awareness of the truth
newly discovered or articulated and a commitment to making public space reflect
historical fact.
Related Links:
A Vanity Fair article on some of the cinematic and real-life inspirations for Miguel's
passion.
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