"True hero of the Mexican ring is the maker of wrestling fantasies"

San Diego Union-Tribune

Centuries ago when actors routinely wore masks, they believed that the characters they played lived within the masks, that one put on the quicksilver Harlequin or the doddering Pantaloon, then, when the show was over, dropped the identity with the mask. What, then, would that make Jorge Ojeda, whose life in Tijuana today is building masks for entertainers every bit as rigidly stylized as any Renaissance commedia dell'arte troupe? Is he master of this universe or the servant of its masters? Ojeda watches from the shadows each Friday night as his fantastical creations come alive in the Auditorio de Tijuana, covering the mighty heads and bulky bodies of the athlete-entertainers who play out the morality pageants of lucha libre. Call it wrestling, if that's more comfortable. There's a lighted ring surrounded by an excited crowd, there's a bell and a referee and the sound of bodies smashing against each other. But there also is a mystical aura unknown in the realms of Hulk Hogan or Andre the Giant, a surreal sense of inhuman combat that steams like Flash Gordon radar waves from those masks that cover nearly every head, so tightly and so ominously. "When I put on my mask," says Rey Misterio Jr, standing just out of the audience's view, his eyes glittering through leather and Spandex slits, "I put on my character." Listening nearby, Ojeda smiles. SPEED AND CREATIVITY Rey Misterio Jr is one of lucha libre's biggest stars at present, a 5-foot-4-inch, 140-pound tecnico whose daring speed and gymnastic creativity make up for his shocking lack of bulk. Now 22, he has trained since he was 5 years old with his uncle, the Tijuana-based wrestler who was the first to carry the name, and he made his professional debut at 15. And he commutes from Chula Vista, where he attended Montgomery High School before leaving in the 11th grade. Backstage at the Tijuana Auditorium, Rey Misterio Jr is dressed in casual clothes since he's present only to make a brief promotional appearance. But he's wearing his mask. That's the rule in Mexico, a rule established and enforced by the wrestler's union, by the federations that hire them for bouts around the country and possibly by the federal Comision de Boxeo y Lucha. But the real enforcers seem to be the fans, for whom the masked wrestlers are a major focus of fantasy. It's hard for a monolingual gringo to find out much about lucha libre, which translates roughly as "freestyle." Every Mexican smiles fondly when it's mentioned, but explaining it seems to be harder than explaining the Lone Ranger to an Eskimo. It helps to grow up with it. STAR POWER Apparently, the tradition of masked wrestlers dates back to the 1930's when a particular wrestler became so unpopular he wanted to hide his identity. The mask made for him transformed him into a mystical hero so potent that the majority of all Mexican wrestlers now wear masks and, goes the myth, never take them off. Right? ("F---!" snorts a senior wrestler. "These things make your hair fall out. And just try wearing one into an airport!") Some stars like the legendary El Santo and the Blue Demon became so popular that they were featured in an endless series of Grade C action movies, like Jackie Chan films without the budget. Their masks became as familiar as other entertainers' faces. They starred in comic strips and branched out into radio. They appeared with starlets at cabarets, guested on game shows and even flirted with politics, always wearing their masks. Plus, they kept wrestling, passing on their masks to the next generation, like the featured star of a recent Tijuana bout, El Hijo del Santo, the Son of the Saint. The questions pile up fast -- Is there really just one Son of the Saint or does he franchise the mask? -- and the answers remain elusive. Ask directly and you'll get the party line. That's why Rey Misterio Jr firmly refused to speak his real name. (Sources say it's Oscar Gonzalez.) Frankly, exact ID is far less interesting than the masks themselves and the mysteries they suggest. Or whether the matches are rehearsed. I suspect that the unspoken agreement in Mexico about lucha libre is similar to the public opinion of Santa Claus: If you start asking too many questions, you probably wouldn't understand anyway. GOVERNMENT LICENSE Each of the five or six bouts on a lucha libre evening features from one to four tecnicos vs. the same number of rudos. The tecnicos are considered to be the craftsmen of lucha libre while the rudos are the brutes. Though all wrestlers train alike for their government license, each is assigned one of the two roles at the start of his career and, apparently, rarely changes. Both tecnicos and rudos can wear masks or not, according to the personalities they develop. Increasingly, though, they all are masked. And that's what keeps Jorge Ojeda in business. "These are very nice people," he says. "No matter whether they are tecnicos or rudos, they are my very good friends. They all have a lot of fantasy." Ojeda, who was training to be a wrestler until he broke his left arm severely six years ago, has plenty of fantasy himself. He obviously cherishes his customers as much as they fondly accept him. "Their fantasy helps when the kids start thinking the wrestlers are heroes and the wrestlers become something like real heroes. Once they wear the masks, they change." I recall the humidity and noise and excitement of the auditorium on wrestling night and the hordes of little boys who somehow had sneaked backstage and stared, jaws agape, at the wrestlers kidding around with each other and talking quietly. Occasionally a boy would reach out a hand and softly pat a wrestler, the way one pats a very impressive horse. "My friend Psicosis," Ojeda is saying, "is a very famous rudo from here in Tijuana. I make his masks. If he is called that name when he is not wearing the mask, he becomes very angry." Most of the famous wrestlers have their masks made in Mexico City. But Ojeda's work is considered in the same class. He says he is one of three mask-makers in Tijuana. When business requires it, he hires helpers. But the majority of the work he does himself, on one of the two worn sewing machines in his tiny flat. EXACT REALIZATIONS A native of Guymas in the state of Sonoma, Ojeda came to Tijuana for his health eight years ago when he was 21. He was working in an upholstery shop when a wrestler came in to get a leather mask repaired. The wrestler -- an American from Atlanta named Senor Tormenta -- liked Ojeda's repair work so much that he asked for a new mask. Ojeda couldn't do it. So he bought a mask and took it apart to figure out how it was made. He never heard again from Senor Tormenta but he began sewing and selling the souvenir masks found in tourist shops. "There is a big difference between cheap mascaritas and what the professionals must use," says Ojeda. Eventually, that's what he began to concentrate upon. These days, Ojeda designs and builds special orders only. He confers with new customers at whatever level they wish, either exact realizations of their designs or a complete new fantasy of his own. And he's ready to turn out any of the hundreds of classic masks he keeps on file in his head and in thick photo albums. He charges from $24 to about $50, depending on the materials required. He scouts up the lame, the netting, the Lycra, the spangles and the ticking in Tijuana fabric outlets. His favorite material is patent leather; vinyl he considers too thin. Sitting in the hotel room of a prominent wrestler named Pierroth, I examined the mask he would wear that evening. It was truly a beautiful piece of sewing, by a Mexico City artisan named Alfred Hernandez. "I don't know what I'll do when he's gone," Pierroth said. But, as far as I can tell, he might do worse than call Ojeda, whose craftsmanship may not be as marvelous up close but who does very good, strong, vivid work nevertheless. Asked if he had ever considered doing costume work outside wrestling, Ojeda was momentarily at a loss. He had, he said, done something for a "parade." Some kind of bird, if I understood the translation. And, yes, he might really be interested in working for, say, the theater. But there's no doubt where Jorge Ojeda's heart lies: "I want to do this type of work," he says softly, "because I can no longer wrestle." I sense that lucha libre is being discovered by the United States and deteriorating into something more like the flatulent spectacle of American wrestling. Too bad, judging from the old films, but probably inevitable. A nice side affect may be, though, that the masks themselves will become popular. Already, I'm told, they sell to collectors for around $100 in Los Angeles and much more in Japan. Maybe Jorge Ojeda himself will be discovered. Meanwhile, he says he can be reached, sometimes during the week, at the auditorium, 011 5266 81 22 72. And, there's a neighbor, 011 5266 81 64 74. Be prepared with the Spanish. And good luck.

Lucha Libre website : www.cmll.com
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