I remember Morelia, in Mexico, from visits long ago: a fine old colonial city which seemed to have a crumbling convent or modest palace on almost every corner. It went through a bad patch in the early years of this century, even before narcoviolence made life difficult there as in so many parts of Mexico. But the city cleaned up its streets, activated the tourist trade, and thanks to much skilled restoration now looks even more colonial than it used to. The effect is of a visit to an elegant and bustling 18th century, updated by cars and discos and cellphones. And for one week of the year at least, the time of its annual international film festival, now in its ninth season, Morelia has glamour in addition to its old charm: red carpets, parties, international directors and stars, journalists everywhere, lots of happy gawking crowds. A waitress asks me discreetly when Diego Luna is arriving. I can’t tell her, because I don’t know; and I don’t tell the waitress I don’t know who Diego Luna is.

LRB 3 November 2011 | PDF Download