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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
Imagine a funeral cortege that believes itself a birthday procession; that is the tonal paradox the Hermanos Alva captured one blistering September morning along Paseo de la Reforma. Their tripod stands where asphalt still smells of fresh tar—Mexico is busy modernizing for its own hundred-year ball—and the resulting images feel like scar tissue still forming.
Unlike the static postcard symmetry of A Procissão da Semana Santa or the postcard-folklore of O Carnaval em Lisboa, this film pulses with a self-aware tremor. The Alvas tilt the camera slightly upward, letting colonial facades loom like jury members. Every flag undulates in counter-rhythm to the crank speed, turning patriotism into a fabric vertigo. You sense the operators’ breath in the wobble—four brothers divided by later revolution but momentarily fused in this viewfinder.
Distribution flyers promised "iris de colores nacional"—tints applied by stenciling in the Paris lab of Pathé. Today only amber ghosts survive: green fringe on the escutcheons of the Rurales, carmine flecks on the generals’ sashes. The palette is the spectrum of a half-healed bruise, forecasting the decade of civil war that would start within twenty-four months. When the frame flares, the orange burst looks prophetically like gunshot lighting up night nitrate.
Silent? Yes, but the footage rattles with imagined noise: the hollow clop of unshod hooves on basalt, the papery thunder of ten thousand programs flapping as fans seek shade. Contemporary newspapers noted that the battalions marched to a newly composed Himno al Centenario—its score now lost—so the silence becomes a vacuum into which any viewer pours private dread. I swear I hear snare drums echo from the Jeffries-Johnson fight footage shot two years later, the same metallic heartbeat.
Look for the woman in second-row balcony, black mantilla lifted like a widow’s wing. Her eyes track the lens, not the parade—a proto-film spectator already aware of being the future’s witness. Two minutes in, a dimpled drum major twirls his baton; the stick leaves a white comet trail against the emulsion, a defect so perfect it feels choreographed. At 04:17 a barefoot newspaper boy dashes parallel to the cavalry, mouth open in what must be a sales chant. Freeze the frame and you’ll notice his papers headline "¡VIVA!"—the exclamation mark slanted like a bayonet.
The Alvas intercut three panoramas: the march, the crowd, the empty avenue before arrival. Each swipe of the pan feels like rifling pages of a family album where half the portraits have been razored out. Scholars call the device primitive continuity; I call it political foreshadowing—spaces awaiting bodies, history awaiting assassins.
Officers sport kepis styled after Napoleon III; cadets wear the chaco that will become emblematic of the 1914 trenches. Thus the parade is a catwalk of misaligned futures: French Second Empire, Porfiriato modernity, revolutionary militarism—all stitched into one woolen fabric itchy with contradictions.
Legend persists that a final reel showed President Díaz alighting from carriage to applause; no print has surfaced. Archivists speculate it was misfiled under newsreel casualties of the 1913 Querétaro warehouse fire. The absent footage haunts scholars much like the lost rounds of Reproduction of the Corbett and Fitzsimmons Fight. What survives is a film with its climax surgically removed, leaving only the parade’s foreboding overture.
In 2018 the Cineteca Nacional scanned the sole surviving 28 mm at 4K. Under electron magnification the grain resembles tequila salt drying on blue agave. Scratches align along the perforations like shrapnel trajectories. Curators opted to leave emulsion damage intact, arguing that each scar is a footnote of Mexican light. The resulting DCP premiered with a live mariachi ensemble performing 1910 salon waltzes—music that never accompanied the original screening—thus turning the event into a palimpsest where past and present dance on cracked vinyl.
Set the film beside the jingoistic pageantry of May Day Parade or the royalist pomp of Les funérailles de Marie-Henriette; what distinguishes the Alva document is its fragile hubris. Where European processionals celebrate stability, this one vibrates with the anxiety of a nation borrowing finery it fears it must soon return.
When the last cuirassier exits the frame, the camera keeps rolling, recording nothing but dust motes swirling in slanted light. That final ten-second "empty" sequence is the film’s secret heart: a premonition of every plaza that will fill with strikers in 1915, with student protesters in 1968, with earthquake survivors in 1985. The street is the same; only the flags change.
Play it on loop at dusk, sound muted, room lit by a single amber bulb. Let peripheral vision coax the silhouettes into motion; soon the parade seems to ooze beyond the screen edges, colonizing your wall like an antique screensaver of national myth. Then read aloud from Martí’s "Amor a la patria" while the banda’s inaudible brass syncs with your heartbeat—an act of historical karaoke.
What makes Desfile histórico del centenario indispensable is not pomp but its inverse: the casual revelation that empires are parades marching toward the cliff edge of their own music. The Hermanos Alva cranked the handle believing they were embalming greatness; instead they embalmed the moment greatness began to stink. We, century-ghosts streaming their decay on glowing rectangles, recognize the odor as our own.
Score: 9.3/10 – A time-capsule that leaks both directions.
IMDb 3.1
1929
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