Miguel Morayta, a Spaniard in the history of Mexican cinema

In 1936, Morayta was military attaché to the Spanish delegation in Tangiers. He decided not to join the uprising of other comrades against the government of the Second Republic. "I did not betray the oath of loyalty I had sworn to the State", Miguel Morayta replied in an interview I conducted with him years ago. He was a career military man. 

That year marked one of Spain's most terrible episodes, its division into two: "Spanish boy who came into the world, God save you. One of the two Spains must freeze your heart", wrote Antonio Machado, who, as you know, died in Colliure (France) on 22 February 1939, on his way to exile, together with his mother and other relatives. And I am reminded of Joaquín Pérez Azaústre's novel, "The Dear Brother", which begins at the moment when the poet Manuel Machado, who is also a poet, hears the sad news and decides to go to meet him, at least to say his last goodbye in front of his tomb. A love story that transcends ideologies.

Morayta was luckier than the poet, and although he arrived in Nazi-occupied France and passed through a concentration camp, he was able to get out, survive and live again. He told me himself that he was a spy, that he took part in the occupation of the territory of Ifni, for which he was decorated, and that, in the beautiful city of Chauen, he was named "Adopted Son". It was an interesting period in his life when successes and problems were mixed, especially when he declared himself an Africanist and a supporter of self-determination for the people, of an independent Morocco, strong and allied with Spain. "Imagine thinking like that in those days," he once told me, for I was lucky enough to meet him in Mexico, which welcomed him, like so many exiles, with open arms.

It was November 1941 when the Quanza, the Portuguese ship on which Morayta was travelling, docked in Veracruz. He left too much behind, including his wife, Maruja, another Manchegan from Almadén, and his first child, who arrived two years later. He was beginning a new life in what was then Mexico City, dedicated entirely to cinema. Shortly after his arrival, in 1943, he made his first film: "Caminito alegre" with Sara García, Isabela Corona and Ángel Garasa from Madrid; the last time he filmed was in 1978: "The cold lovers". In between, as a director, scriptwriter or producer, he made more than a hundred films not only with the great Mexican actors of the time, but also with Spanish actors. Do you remember the film "Ay pena, penita, pena" with the unforgettable Lola Flores, the Faraona? Did you know that it was directed by Miguel Morayta? Carmen Sevilla, the twins Pilar and Aurora Bayona Sarría, known as Pili and Mili, Manolete's great love, Lupe Sino, the gallant Arturo Fernández, Joselito... all worked with the filmmaker from La Mancha in Mexico.

Morayta was born on 15 August 1907. He boasted of having come into this world on the same day as Napoleon Bonaparte, his favourite historical figure and whom he deeply admired for "his strategic ability, his incredible memory, his bravery and his tireless zeal for work". He lived for 105 years, until 19 June 2013, when he said goodbye to us in the city that gave him so much, although he always carried his roots in his heart. It is now 11 years ago.

He was undoubtedly one of the great exponents of the golden age of Mexican cinema. Over there, in his host country, "The Martyr of Calvary", for example, is still a classic; I remember seeing it on television at some Easter week. But in Spain he is largely forgotten, also in his homeland of La Mancha, despite the efforts of Domingo Ruiz from Ciudarrealeño to vindicate his figure: he made a documentary and published two books on his cinematography. Neither at national nor regional level has he been given the deserved recognition that Miguel Morayta should have. 

I was lucky enough to listen to his stories and the things I am telling you in this column today while we ate or had a coffee in the Colonia Roma, where he lived, to admire and love him, so I do not lose hope, and perhaps, one day, those who have it in their power to do so will put this man from La Mancha who tattooed his name in the history of Mexican cinema in the place where he should be.