Never seen before Cuba photos and more from Love & Suicide, the movie.

Opening scene

2007-05-03T20:05:00.000-07:00

Cuban montage

2007-05-03T20:04:00.000-07:00

Kamar de los Reyes and Daisy Mc Crackin heat up the screen in Love & Suicide

2007-05-02T16:15:00.000-07:00

Public's magazine interviews Love & Suicide. The biggest little picture.

2007-05-02T14:38:00.000-07:00

LOVE and SUICIDE: The Biggest Little Picture
Written by Walter Ryce
Interviews: Lisa Silvera and Walter Ryce
Images: Rick Delgado

Editors Note*
If you have not already done so, we implore you to see the independently produced film, LOVE and SUICIDE before the years’ end. This film will affect you deeply and unforgettably. When you have seen the film, please talk about it and encourage 5 more people to see it as well. Luis, Lisa, Bobbi, Demian, Jerry and Peter this is for you - from all of us at PUBLIC Magazine.

Courtship: There’s Something In The Air
We open on an exterior wide shot of a passenger plane cruising high above the cloud line. Destination: Cuba. Among the passengers is a small, close-knit American/Cuban-American film crew. They are anxious and eager. They are on their way to attend a screening of their film Anne B. Real at the Havana Film Festival. But they are also going to Cuba for another reason—a secret “mission”. With a small DVX camera the size of a lunch box in hand, and a tentative, unsanctioned plan in mind, they will, if fate and the Cuban government don’t intercede—film a movie there. It will be the first American narrative film shot on location in Cuba in nearly 50 years. It’s name; Love and Suicide.

The Seed: A Little Backstory
The idea originated with writer/producer/actor Luis Moro. Loosely based on a painful and unresolved relationship with his own father, as well as elements from lead actor Kamar De Los Reyes’ life, Luis wanted to tell a story about one of Cuba’s prodigal sons trekking back to his roots to find and face a past he had thus far denied. Luis also wanted to tell the story in Cuba, which, due to the U.S. embargo, made the prospect prohibitive and unlikely. That is, until Anne B. Real is accepted to participate in the Havana Film Festival. It gives the independent film crew the opening they need. It isn’t much time—about three weeks. But it might be enough.

Contact: Guerrilla Style
The Cuban customs checkpoint turns out to be anti-climactic. Their walkie-talkies are confiscated, but their Hi-Def DVX cameras and other equipment are allowed through. The film crew faithfully do the meet-and-greets and Q & A’s at the festival. But when not attending festival events, they use a combination of discretion, watchfulness, minimal equipment, and their Cuban lineage to blend into the bustling life of Havana. They shoot in the open as camouflage. They improvise. They shoot quickly and leave the scene quickly. The police are, thankfully, disinterested, even helpful. The crew get permission when they can, but when they can’t they shoot anyway. The way co-producer Bobbi-Miller Moro puts it, “We don’t quit.”

Using natural light and real Cubans going about their real lives, the small crew capture scenes that contain a quality of cinema verite—cinema of truth. Ordinary Cubans (“The most warm, loving and non-judgemental people you will ever encounter,” says Luis) lend help, enthusiasm, and act as a buffer between the Cuban authorities and the project. Day-by-day, hour-by-hour, they capture the pieces that will comprise Love and Suicide. Atypical of such a risky shoot, “completion of this film was divine, executed without one single hitch or problem,” says producer Peter Maez. When the film festival ends, so too does their filming schedule. Then it’s back to the USofA.

Gestation: The Recesses of Post-Production
So the hard part is over, right? Wrong. Next comes the task of assembling the 40+ hours of raw footage they’ve shot in Cuba (and location shots in New York) into something cohesive. The whole familia, along with Lab 601 Productions, shacks up together—commune style—in one, big house in Van Nuys, California. They live, cook, work, eat, clean, struggle, learn, and then work some more, in the orbit of Love and Suicide. The post-production ordeal consumes the small crew; it demands all their energy, it demands resolution. Co-Producer Peter Maez gives thanks, especially during this time, to “den mom” Bobbi Moro, who “held the fort down…as the fist of the production and the real matriarch of the film.”

The early drafts of the film are screened in front of friends and family in Miami, New York, and Alabama (yes, Alabama). It is then re-edited; storylines emerge, collide, morph, and submerge. The process is in such flux that Luis isolates himself from the operation until he can re-focus. When he returns, he brings Jorge "Jokes" Yanes with him, who brings a selection of choice Cuban salsa, merenge, Columbian, European, and post-modern songs to accompany the images from Havana. Luis orchestrates the young, technically proficient editors like a conductor. It all starts to take shape.

Birth: World, Meet Love and Suicide
Love and Suicide opens with various shots of life in Havana; aging architecture, old, classic cars, a mule-driven buggy, colourful people, small fishing boats, and simple commerce. Director Lisa France lets this montage set the tone. These shots are accompanied by a telling voice-over by Luis’ taxi driver character, Alberto: “I’ve seen the free world through the eyes of many tourists…no one is truly free.”

In an upscale New York apartment, the main character of the story, Tomas (Kamar De Los Reyes), drowns himself with booze and pills in an internal battle with unnamed demons. On the verge of losing this inner struggle, Tomas escapes to Cuba, holing up in a room at the Rivera Hotel. Soon, he encounters two people that will force him to re-evaluate himself in ways that he alone could not.

One such person is Cuban taxi driver Alberto, played by Luis with deadpan zeal, compassion, and machismo in a refreshing performance by the rarest of actors; a black Latino. Alberto takes an interest in Tomas right away, first as a curiosity, then as a taxi fare, and finally as a friend. The other fateful encounter is with a crimson-haired American tourist named Nina, played by Daisy McCrackin. Whereas Tomas is initially “serious” and angst-y, Nina’s bright-eyed openness pierces his shroud.

Alberto is enlisted to ferry the two yumas (foreigners) around—and into—the heart of Cuba. In tourist fashion, the unusual couple explore the whirlwind of sights, sounds, and culture around them. The vibrancy of the Cuban people defiantly shines on the decaying facades of the surrounding buildings. Alberto completes their experience by inviting the couple to his home for a warm, hearty family feast. Slowly, Tomas delves deeper into painful and buried layers of his self, including a confrontation with his Latin heritage, and a visit to his estranged father’s past. His two companions provide the prodding and support he will need.

After this colourful and potent tour through Cuba, the film cuts back to Tomas in New York, which seems big and imposing by comparison. Is this a flashback to the beginning? Was the beginning a flashforward to the end? This is a David Lynchian puzzle that invites speculating rather than solving—a structural warp in a film whose heart is in the big, juicy middle.

Luis Moro says of Love and Suicide’s overriding theme: “You cannot exist in this world in anger, and in resentment. Forgiveness is essential for survival.” That message has special significance in the Cuban exile community here in the States. It poses a challenge to let go of painful history in order to embrace the living people and enduring spirit of Cuba.

Growth: Walking, Talking, Marketing
As you read this, the contraband film is doing the rounds. In true guerrilla form that mirrors their shooting style in the streets of Havana, the team of Luis and Bobbi Moro, Peter Maez, and a host of other principals are hard at work trying to get the film seen. There have been screenings in Miami, New Mexico, and briefly in New York, where the appetite for the film is swelling. Key West, London (which happens to be the name of the Moros’ second child) and Los Angeles are next.

At each screening, the filmmakers meet with audience members, shaking hands, talking, and exchanging ideas, recollections, business cards, phone numbers, and hugs from grateful abuelitas (grandmothers). True to grassroots form, they encourage everyone who has seen the film to tell five others, creating a people-to-people network. One guerrilla marketing campaign promoting the movie had to be accomplished for about (don’t laugh) $600. On the other hand, Luis is able to compile a hefty email list of 45,000, and Bobbi maintains high internet visibility and juicy media contacts. The team is deeply grateful to “James” the visionary general manager of Miami’s Coconut Grove AMC Theatre, who championed the film and gave the filmmakers invaluable exposure for a surprisingly victorious 10-week run, which mirrors the happenings at a New Mexico screening. Big hopes for the immediate future rest on what happens at the Regency Fairfax Cinema in Los Angeles. L.A.; if they can make it there, they’ll make it anywhere.

Struggle: “Thank You For Not Going Into Politics”
Thank you for not going into politics. This is what one old Cuban woman says to Peter Maez as she exits the Love and Suicide screening at the AMC movie theatre in Coconut Grove. She goes on to explain that she hadn’t seen Cuba so clear, so immediate, in a film without the taint of politics. It was like going back to Cuba, she cries as she tells him this. Many cry at the end of the film; they sit through the credits, remembering, composing themselves.

The media is also reacting to Love and Suicide, though the press is skewed toward the political ramifications surrounding its creation and import; the U.S. Department of Transportation issued a letter of investigation and threatened fines; hard-line anti-Castro Cubans have expressed anger; the Cuban government remains strangely silent thus far, though they know of its existence. Still, the team knows that any publicity can help their cause, which is really three-fold; to increase distribution of the film, to show Cuba and its people without censor, and to protest the embargo. They don’t welcome trouble so much as they hope for dialogue, and they know how to spin attention into PR (getting banned “would be great for promotion,” says Bobbi).

But as artists, they get weary of the same sensational political angles that journalists cast their way. It seems the spiritual, familial, and human part of the story gets brushed aside to make room for the potential powder keg surrounding the film. The filmmakers are comfortable with the fact that the artistic and the political are irretrievably tied together in Love and Suicide. It was, after all, their intention.

“This film represents the epitome of free speech,” says Luis. Bobbi agrees, adding that “our rights as Americans, our rights as a human being” supersede the restrictions of the embargo. They believe they are in a position to bridge the rift between the United States and Cuba when (When!) the wall of the embargo comes tumbling down. They would be proud if the legacy of this film were to serve as the first volley that crashes through that wall, encouraging people to reach across the divide. Talk about ambition. Talk about hope.

Dreaming: To Be Continued…
An award-winning artist in her own right, Bobbi is “still blown away” about the prospect of Love and Suicide playing in her “hometown” of Los Angeles. Her enthusiasm is tempered by the high stakes and sacrifices that the project has engendered: “It’s like our baby. We want the best reception…on the other hand, you’re always tentative,” she says by phone from California. Her husband Luis is there, too. They are ordinary people; their lives have been elevated by the pull of their dreams. Luis cooks something in the kitchen. While conducting the phone interview, Bobbi nurses her baby. They are ordinary people, accomplishing something extraordinary.

Directed by Lisa France. Produced by Luis Moro, Demian Lichtenstien, Jerry Katell, & Peter Maez. Original Story by Luis Moro. Screenplay by Luis Moro & Lisa France. Director of Photography by Demian Lichtenstien. Executive Producer by Duane Wandless. Co-Producers Belinda Marment, Jesse Guma, Bobbi Miller-Moro & Cynthia Perez-Brown. 1st AD, Belinda Marment. Editors; Jorge "Jokes" Yanes & Bruno Breil. Associate Producer/Locations: Alberto Gonzalez. Sound design; Matt Mariano. Lead Actors; Kamar De Los Reyes (Tomas), Luis Moro (Alberto), & Daisy McCrackin (Nina). Lightstone Entertainment with Katell Productions. Runtime: 90 minutes, Language: English & Certification: USA Un-Rated. www.morofilms.com & www.loveandsuicidethemovie.com

Never before seen scenes of Cuba shot while on location in Havana, Cuba

2007-05-02T12:15:00.000-07:00

The 'kitchen scene' everyone talks about...

2007-05-02T11:52:00.000-07:00

'Alberto' in the infamous baseball scene portrayed by Luis Moro. The man of many faces.

2007-05-02T09:24:00.000-07:00

'Alberto' as played by Luis Moro in the histroy making film Love & Suicide.

2007-05-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

Kamar de los Reyes (People mag sexiest) is 'Tomas' a man on the brink of suicide who goes to Cuba to discover the one thing between Love & Suicide.

2007-05-01T20:38:00.000-07:00

Daisy Mc Crackin as 'Nina' in Love & Suicide

2007-05-01T18:06:00.000-07:00

Interview, and cover story of Kamar de los Reyes in making Love & Suicide for Urban Latino magazine March 2007

2007-05-01T17:52:00.000-07:00

Cover Story
Text Jesús Triviño Alarcón Images Yolanda Perez
Kamar de los Reyes is drunk off his ass. He's taking swigs of a bottle of liquor, lighting cigarette after cigarette as the angry waves of the Gulf of Mexico get harder and harder. In his inebriated condition he struggles to maintain his seat on Cuba's El Malecón but the waves are too overbearing. They're beating him like NYPD's finest on an unarmed man. Yet, he doesn't seem to care. The boricua/cubano actor hasn't lost his way but his character, Tomás, in his film, Love & Suicide, is near a moribund state. As melancholy mood music is the backdrop, Tomás sinks deeper and deeper. He gets up, now wobbling as he continues to take another shot of his potion. His eyes as red as the Communist star, Tomás' body may be on Earth but his soul has gone away on a hellish journey.

Ironically as Tomás struggles with his inner demons, de los Reyes' acting career reads damn near heavenly compared to other actors. His thespian skills have grown quite a bit since he was a little trumpeter growing up in Las Vegas, NV. There wasn't a lot to do for kids in "Sin City" during the '70s. But being the son of Walfredo de los Reyes Jr., a drummer/percussionist, comes with its coolness factors. What other snot-nosed kid gets a chance to meet legendary Vegas acts like Ben Vereen, Charo, Rich Little, Paul Anka, Tony Bennett and Wayne Newton? Not much.
"My grandfather [Walfredo de los Reyes] and his brother founded Orquesta Casino de la Playa," says de los Reyes, 39. "They started it in the living room where my father was born in Cuba. Some of the most famous soneros and mambo singers came from that orchestra. They were intense musicians. My grandfather gave me my first trumpet when I was 3. I started playing when I was 4."

The wunderkind, through the help of his father, appeared on the same stage as musical greats like Dizzy Gillespie, Harry James and Maynard Ferguson. Kamar continued to blow until the age of 15, then the unfortunate passing of his grandfather completely stunted his musical growth.
"I lost el animo. He was my idol growing up. When he passed away I was disillusioned and put [the trumpet] down to never picked it up again," remembers de los Reyes. "Once in a while I start thinking about playing again but I just don't see myself doing it. My nine-year-old son has expressed some interest so maybe he'll follow in those footsteps."

While his son might follow the family legacy, (de los Reyes' older brothers Daniel and Wally Jr. are musicians as well) he might also follow his father's career. On a L.A. trip to visit his brother, who was playing percussion in a (don't laugh) Cher music video for "We All Sleep Alone," de los Reyes was cast as one of its dancers. His footwork landed him in Salsa and the television version of Dirty Dancing. Although his good looks got him dancing roles he also went through the actors' rites of passage. He waited tables, bartended, fixed roofs and laid down carpet-all for the sake of maintaining the dream of being on stage. Then in 1994, while he was on a syndicated show, Valley of the Dolls, he got a call that would energize his career. Tony Award-winning director and playwright, George C. Wolfe, called him to cast him as a gay Irish-Mexican boxer in New York's Public Theatre's production of Blade to the Heat. The play led to critical acclaim for de los Reyes and a reawakening.

"So I came to New York and it was like getting hit by a brick," he says. "I was at the Public Theatre with George C. Wolfe and this was the real shit. It was kind of like a slap in the face to wake up. It was no longer about looking good. It was about developing a craft. I dug my teeth into it and I did the play and I gave up doing anything and everything else to focus on my acting. Slowly but surely within six months it started taking off."

With inspiration on his side, the San Juan, PR native started booking work on ER, New York Undercover, Touched By An Angel and another Wolfe production, The Tempest. Grinding as hard as possible eventually landed him the role he's most revered for-policeman Antonio Vega on ABC's One Life to Live. Ironically, the casting agent knew Kamar was in New York and hired him based on a videotape of a prior audition. And ultimately, landing a career that would span over the course of a decade on the popular soap.more info go to: http://www.morofilms.com/