The Five Acts of Diego Leon (34 page)
Read The Five Acts of Diego Leon Online
Authors: Alex Espinoza
Would-be hopefuls with stars in their eyes have been flocking to Tinseltown for as long as anyone can remember. It seems these budding thespians are as natural a part of the landscape as the palm and citrus trees that line the streets and avenues of our fair city. One such person arrived, like so many others, in Hollywood in 1927, at the tender age of nineteen with only a few dollars in his pocket and the hope of someday seeing his name flashing on a marquee or on a billboard along Sunset Boulevard. Frontier Pictures’ Diego Cortez dreamed of the day when the stardom he’s currently experiencing would come but never thought it would take so much time and perseverance as it has.
Known best for his roles in such films as
The Bride of Blood, Far from Home
, and
Two to Tango
, the actor, humble and gracious, admitted to us from his Hollywood bungalow that the road to fame was paved with some tough choices, especially when he contemplated walking away from his career to return to Mexico to care for his aging grandparents. “That was difficult,” he confessed, a slight quiver in
his voice, as we sat in his bright and airy living room. “But these are the choices we’re given. The journey’s been a long one, but I’m glad to be here, glad to have the support of so many adoring fans over time.”
And what times they have been for this young man, whose star is only getting brighter and brighter. “I started out so far away from here and am lucky and grateful to have finally arrived.” With a family history ripe with loss and death, it’s little more than a miracle that he is with us today. Diego was the direct descendant of a mighty king, the last ruler of the great Tarascan people who inhabited much of western Mexico before the Spaniards arrived. Born into an affluent family in the cosmopolitan city of Morelia, in the lush and fertile state of Michoacán, Diego, an only child, was a precocious baby and showed early signs of having an adventurous spirit when his negligent nanny turned away and he crawled off and got himself lost in a cornfield while on an outing with the family. In his first year, the family’s simple life was turned upside down when an influenza outbreak that swept though the city claimed the life of his father, a successful businessman. His grieving mother raised the young Diego with the help of her parents, who doted on the boy. Diego grew into a handsome and charming young man. He was bright and quick, curious and charismatic, was loyal to his mother and obedient and polite and very devoted to God and his church. But, alas, tragedy struck again when an infection claimed the life of his beautiful mother. As he grew, his grandfather, a shrewd businessman, groomed Diego to work in his office, notarizing forms and documents.
“It was my grandfather’s hope that I take over the business,” he told me. “But that life was not for me. I had a calling. A desire to be something else.”
Diego came in contact with his first silent movie when a picture house opened around the corner from his grandfather’s business. From that moment on, the young man developed a love and fascination with Hollywood movies and all things American. Early one morning, while the grandparents
slept, Diego, clutching only a duffel bag and with a few pesos to his name, snuck away and caught a train bound for the United States. His final destination: Hollywood. His early years in Los Angeles were a struggle; he held down a number of jobs that included street newspaper vendor, a farmhand, and a ditchdigger. Underneath the rugged exterior, there is a genial sensitivity about the man, a curiosity akin to that of a young boy, ever quizzical and full of a pervasive nostalgia that is at once wistful as it is endearing. But there is also a chivalry within him, much like those possessed by the courageous and valiant matadors down in Old Mexico, a strict adherence to and devotion for his church, his God, and his family. Single, good-looking, a talented singer and dancer, Diego loves to entertain anyone from Zippo the Clown to Margaret Dillon and Frontier top man William Cage. Diego Cortez is truly a “man’s man,” a close friend any guy would hope for. Years of manual work have yielded a trim and muscular physique for the six foot one, one hundred and seventy-five pound actor. With a healthy mane of dark chestnut hair that shines ever so brightly in the sun, a smile that beams confidence and wit, broad shoulders and a sturdy chest held up by muscular legs and arms, Diego is, without a doubt, every man’s ideal companion and every lady’s comely dream.
“It’s the fans that keep me going, Marty,” he confessed when asked what inspires him.
Diego Cortez is here to stay, according to his fans near and far. And we couldn’t agree more!
After the
Bride of Blood
premiere, it was clear Diego had been noticed. Mr. Levitt himself urged Cage to do everything to get Diego into more of Frontier’s major projects after his private viewing of
The Bride of Blood
. “This Latin kid’s going to be big.” In 1933, Diego became known as “Frontier Pictures’ answer to Valentino.” Bill suggested they change his last name from León to Cortez. More regal, he said. Makes one think of a manly man, like the great conquistador
Hernan Cortez. It’s adventurous, he insisted. Noble. R. J. liked Diego Cortez, and so did a handful of studio secretaries Bill went around asking, so it stuck. Diego hated it, but he had no choice.
There came new clothes and a new look to go with the new persona. A team of press agents was put in charge of reinventing him. A fictitious biography was written and fed to the media, who, in turn, ran with it and printed this whenever they wrote about “Frontier’s Latin Valentino.” In this version of himself, he wasn’t born into poverty. Diego Cortez had never lived through the hardships of the revolution, had never seen hunger, the cold, had never known the fear of despair and loss. He had been born into privilege, and this, the press agents said, was important to stress.
“Why?” he had asked. “Don’t people like a rags-to-riches story?”
The agent, slow-talking, methodical, said that, under normal circumstances, this would be true. “But what we want to do is emphasize a cultured and sophisticated upbringing. We want to paint you as an educated, learned Mexican.” He moved his pale, thin fingers across the wide boardroom table where they met.
“So many people in the press see the word ‘Mexican’ and think certain unfavorable things,” said a female press agent sitting nearby. “We don’t want them associating you with that.”
And so it was. Diego held the
Snapshots
article written by the effeminate young reporter who had spent several weeks with him, smoking cigarettes with Diego, dining with him, staying the night several times and sleeping in the guest bedroom. The
Snapshots
article would be the first of many to feature his new biography. He would just have to accept that this was who he was now. He had gone from being one person to another almost overnight.
“Are you sure this is for the best?” Diego asked Bill one evening as they lay on Bill’s bed. Diego held the magazine, his eyes focusing on his new last name. Cortez. “I still don’t think I like Diego Cortez.”
“It’s good,” Bill insisted. “I like it. It rolls off the tongue. It’s very mysterious, exotic.” He leaned over, pushed Diego down on the bed, and pressed his body on top of his. He reached for the
Snapshots
magazine and tossed it across the room. He kissed his neck and stroked his chest. Diego could feel Bill’s hardness.
“It just doesn’t feel right to me,” Diego said. “My fans like me. Why can’t I just be who I am? Why can’t I just be Diego León?” He remembered what his father told him many years before, about being the last of the Leóns, about carrying on the family name.
“American audiences will mispronounce León. Plus there’s the matter with the little accent over the
O
. It’s too exotic-sounding.”
“But my father—”
“Enough,” Bill interjected. “You’re being childish. People change things all the fucking time in this business. It’s just a name.” He stopped and calmed down before speaking again. “Isn’t this what you hoped for? What you always wanted? Aren’t you happy?”
“Yes,” Diego said, kissing Bill on the lips. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for all your help. And I’ve really enjoyed this. Us together,” he said.
“Me too.”
“That makes me happy,” Diego said just as Bill leaned in closer and took him in his arms. They kissed and caressed one another for some time before Bill penetrated him.
“I’ll take good care of you. Just make sure to do exactly as I say,” Bill said.
“I will. I promise.”
Diego tried to focus but all he could think about was what Jacques Fantin told him at the premiere. He could feel Bill inside of him now, pushing deeper and deeper. He clenched his teeth and moaned.
Bill soon ordered more changes for Diego.
“What else?” he asked him.
“You need a car. Stop riding the trolley to work like some common dope.” Bill reminded him that he was paying him enough money to afford such luxuries, so one Sunday afternoon, they went car shopping, and Diego purchased a two-toned 1934 Nash LaFayette Coupe with whitewalled tires and sleek running boards along either side. Inside, the interior was plush and soft, and when he drove up to the studio gates in it and showed it to Bill, Bill pointed to the car’s registration on the neck of the steering wheel. “That
there says it’s registered to you. I don’t want to hear about you riding that public trolley. You’ve got your own car now. And move out of the Ruby Rose. It’s a real dive.”
Diego spent the rest of the day driving around quiet neighborhoods, looking for the right place to live.
“I knew it, saw it coming” was what Rose said when Diego told her and Ruby that he would be moving.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am. It’s just that, well, the studio thinks I should be somewhere else.”
They were standing in the lobby. Ruby sighed and set a stack of receipts down. “Hey, look,” she said. “We’re glad for you. We don’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just that, well, nobody can afford to live here anymore.”
“We lower the rent,” Rose replied, “and they still don’t bite.”
“Hard times.” Ruby shook her head.
“Hard times indeed,” said Rose.
Diego said, “Maybe I could talk to some people at the studio, see if anyone needs a—”
“No.” Ruby raised her hand. “Please don’t, honey. We’ll be fine. Just fine. We’ll figure something out. My sister and I are happy for you. Truly happy.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch.”
They smiled and nodded in a way that told them all he never, ever would.
Diego spent 1934 working on picture after picture. There was
Far from Home
with Eloise Kendall and Lester Frank, who showed up to the set every day without his lines rehearsed and reeking of booze. After
Far from Home
, there was
Two to Tango
, again with Eloise and where he had to learn tricky tango steps and wear tight outfits. After that there was
The Lost Years
, with Constance Gardner and Jacques Fantin, on loan from Empire Pictures, who had contracted him after Frontier let him go. Poetic justice, Jacques would say each time he showed up on the set. There was
The Penny Wish
, with Nivia Gaynor, a disastrous melodrama with a bad script and a horrible
director. He played a college quarterback star in
The Touchdown Kid
, and would have to ice the bruises he received from being tackled again and again.
He was a powerful Chinese emperor in
The Silk Road
and spent hours in front of a mirror while the makeup artists applied adhesive strips on the corners of his eyes to pull them back so that he looked “Oriental.” He was an Arab sheik in
Desert Nights
, a poor immigrant who comes to America to strike it big only to be met with failure in
Ashes to Ashes
. In between the films, there were shorts and serials, radio commercials and interviews, dates with new Frontier starlets, fundraisers and trips. The year 1934 was one of endless scripts and screen tests, of costume fittings and makeup sessions, of fake wigs and prosthetic noses and moles and scars and wounds, of epic battles and fancy balls, of births and deaths, of tragedy and celebration. It was dizzying, grueling, demanding in ways he never imagined. But it was what he wanted, what he had always wanted, he reminded himself. On the day he met R. J. Levitt at the Frontier Pictures New Year’s Eve Ball of 1934, he remembered the first time he set foot on the studio lot with Charlie. When he shook R. J.’s hand, and when R. J. placed his arm, so firm, so loyal, so loving, around Diego’s shoulder, and when he thanked Diego for his “years of dedication and service to this fine studio,” Diego wanted nothing more than to hug the man, to profess his loyalty, to tell him just how much he and Frontier meant to him. But he remained assured and steady.
“This is your home,” R. J. said kindly. “Understand, son? This is your home.”
“Yes,” Diego said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me R. J.” He smiled, his eyes beaming from behind his spectacles. “Not sir or Mr. Levitt,” he said, chuckling. “Think of me not as your boss or the head of this big place. Think of me as a father figure. And may 1935 prove to be an even bigger success for you, son.”
Diego belonged. For the first time in his life. He belonged. He had a place in the world.
