Betrayed by Rita Hayworth

By Manuel Puig and Suzanne Jill Levine

Manuel Puig's "dazzling and wholly original debut" (New York Times Book Review) is a startling anatomy of a small town in thrall to its own petty lusts, betrayals, scandals, thefts, and gossip--but most of all, to the movies.

When it appeared in 1968, Manuel Puig’s debut—a portrait of the artist as a child in small-town Argentina—was hailed as revolutionary. Borrowing from the language of "true romance" and movie magazines, the techniques of American modernism, and Hollywood montage, Puig created an exuberant queer aesthetic while also celebrating the secret lives of women.

Hanging on the conversations of his mother, friends, and neighbors, Puig's stand-in Toto pieces together stories as full of passion, desire, and revenge as anything dreamed up for the silver screen. “A screamingly funny book, with scenes of such utter bathos that only a student of final reels such as Puig could possibly have verbally recreated for us” (Alexander Coleman, New York Times), it is also a bittersweet love letter to the the golden age of Hollywood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: McNally Editions
• Release date: Jun 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781946022431

Manuel Puig

Born in a small town in the Argentine pampas, Manuel Puig (1932–1990) read philosophy at the University of Buenos Aires before winning a scholarship to study film direction at Cinecittà Studios in Rome. Exiled from Argentina, he settled in New York City in 1963. His 1976 novel Kiss of the Spider Woman was filmed in 1985   by the Argentine-Brazilian director Héctor Babenco, thereafter becoming a Broadway musical in 1993. Puig’s novels have been translated into fourteen languages.

Book preview

I

MITA’S PARENTS’ PLACE, LA PLATA, 1933

—A brown cross-stitch over beige linen, that’s why your tablecloth turned out so well.

—This tablecloth alone gave me more trouble than the whole set of doilies, a full eight pairs… if they paid more for needlework, I could hire a sleep-in maid and spend more time on embroidery, once I get my customers, don’t you think?

—Embroidery doesn’t seem tiring, but after a few hours your back begins to ache.

—But Mita wants me to make her a bedspread for the baby’s crib, with bright colors since the bedrooms get so little light. Three rooms one after the other leading into a hallway with big windows, all covered with canvas curtains that you can pull open.

—If I had more time, I’d make myself a bedspread. You know what’s really tiring? Typewriting on a high desk like the one I have in the office.

—If I lived in this house, I’d sit next to the window whenever I had a minute to work on Mita’s bedspread—for the light.

—Is Mita’s furniture nice?

—Mom feels terrible Mita can’t take advantage of the house, now we’ve got all the modern conveniences, and she’s right.

—I had a premonition when they gave Mita that job, it seemed the year would never end, imagine going away for a whole year, and now she’s there to stay. You’ve got to face it, that’s where she’s going to live.

—She ought to come twice a year to La Plata instead of only once.

—Vacation days fly, the first day she’s here doesn’t seem so short, it seems like you’re getting a lot done, but then the time is gone before you know it.

—Mom, don’t think I get that much advantage out of the house either.

—I think your children got into the chicken coop.

—Clara, you should come every afternoon with the babies, they never touch the plants. But they drive grandfather crazy with the chickens.

—How much are you getting for the chickens?

—When you write to Mita, tell her to take her time getting furniture. I’m afraid if she buys her own furniture she’s going to stay in that town forever. Write to your sister, she’s always anxious to hear from us.

—Did you buy all new furniture for this house?

—If the house had been finished when Mita graduated, it wouldn’t have been easy for her to go away all by herself, to work in that small town.

—Is Vallejos as ugly as Mita says?

—Not at all, Violeta. I liked it quite a bit, it’s not so ugly, do you think so, Mom? When I got off the train, my first impression was awful, there’s not a single tall building. They’re always having droughts there, so you don’t see many trees either. In the station there are no taxis, they still use the horse and buggy, and the center of town is just two and a half blocks away. You can find a few trees that are hardly growing, but what you don’t see at all, anywhere, is real grass. Mita has already planted lawn grass twice, and at the right time of the year too, but no luck.

—But by watering the pots practically twenty times a day she finally managed to grow some beautiful plants in a kind of small patio behind the kitchen.

—Then it’s not so bad?

—When I first saw Vallejos I didn’t like it, but life there is very easy. Mita has a maid who cooks and cleans the house, and a girl who takes care of the baby while she works in the hospital. All the poor people in Vallejos love Mita since she isn’t stingy with the cotton and antiseptics and bandages.

—Is it one of those beautiful, new hospitals?

—The man who was in charge of the laboratory before Mita came was so stingy—as if everything belonged to him and not the hospital.

—The other day I saw Carlos Palau’s latest movie.

—Mita’s sure to see it when it comes to Vallejos.

—How long was she engaged to Carlos Palau?

—We never really thought Carlos Palau would make it.

—She was never engaged to Carlos Palau, he would ask her to dance, but I always stayed to the very end to chaperone the girls home.

—He was only a stagehand in the local theater.

—He’s the only real actor in Argentine movies.

—Mita’s husband looks exactly like Carlos Palau, I always said.

—In a way, but not exactly.

—Some of the Palaus still live in the same slum.

—But I never thought Mita would get used to living in a small town.

—What the chickens eat first are the leftovers from dinner, even before they eat the corn.

—Grandpa, which one is the one you’re going to kill for Sunday?

—Today I’m going to kill one for Violeta’s father, but don’t tell Grandma, she’ll get mad.

—Grandma’s in the kitchen with Mommy and Violeta, she can’t see you.

—I’m going to kill this chicken for Violeta’s father and send it to him for a surprise.

—Grandpa, who makes more money, you with the chickens or Violeta’s father fixing shoes?

—Clara, while your mother was here I couldn’t tell you about the office. He’s the kind of man that grows on you. He proposed to me.

—How can you say he proposed? That’s when a man wants to get married, a married man can’t propose, Violeta, what he does is proposition you. Don’t start twisting things around because then I’d rather not listen.

—He’s not at all handsome. It’s just that he grows on you.

—If you want to embroider a bedspread the best time of the year is now, days are longer and after work you still have an hour of light, it’s not half as tiring if you embroider in daylight, if you’re lucky and get out of work early.

—Poor Adela.

—Poor thing, she has to use artificial light in the office all day long.

—I’ll have to go without getting to see her.

—Didn’t you know that she worked late?

—Adela could have used a degree, then she wouldn’t have to be a secretary.

—The one who got the degree doesn’t need it.

—How’s business going with Mita’s husband?

—He sold a house and with the money he bought some cattle. Mom wants me to make a bedspread for Mita but I don’t think I’ll have the time. I’ll send the patterns to her in Vallejos and she can make it herself. She has two maids. Don’t tell anyone but Dad went to kill a chicken to surprise your father.

—It doesn’t seem right to me that she got married in that town, instead of staying to help here after all the sacrifice your mother went through to give her a good education.

—Adela’s new glasses are made out of genuine tortoise shell.

—I’m sorry, I’d help you kill the chicken but it really upsets me. Dad is going to be ever so grateful.

—Mita didn’t want to look when I killed a chicken either, but she sure ate it up all right.

—Remember that classmate of Mita’s at the university, the professor’s daughter, the one who was always so finicky?

—Sofia Cabalús?

—Did she ever get married?

—Now Mita must miss the good times she had here.

—Sofia Cabalús never set foot in this house again after Mita went away. It’s been months since I’ve seen her.

—They told me in the office that her father went crazy, he

hardly ever makes it to class. And all they do at home is read. You never see Sofia because she’s always locked up in the house reading.

—Don’t go before Adela comes home.

—I’d love to see her new glasses.

—They cost her almost a half-month’s salary.

—She’d get splitting headaches when she went without glasses.

—Grandma, why does Violeta put black around her eyes?

—She’s already getting involved with her new boss.

—Her father’s going to be happy with the chicken. Who knows how long it’s been since they’ve had chicken?

—I really hate to scold her but it’s even worse to keep quiet and let her mess up her life with that man.

—Her poor mother, if she could come back from her grave today.

—Violeta must know we don’t take our shoes to her father anymore.

—Every time I went to pick up the shoes I had to come back empty handed. It’s not right for him to promise they’ll be ready Tuesday and then Tuesday they’re not ready even if it’s only a simple heel. That’s how he’s been losing customers, for daydreaming all the time.

—They’re not rehearsing at the Italian Society anymore, it’s useless, opera is very difficult, and if the voices are no good it’s a disaster.

—One day one friend buys him a drink, the next day another. Even your father sometimes pays for the drinks, he won’t admit it but I’m sure he does.

—Mita and Sofia Cabalús started giggling and had to leave the rehearsal.

—What should I make for supper tonight?

—You’d better start cutting the lettuce out back. The edges are turning purple.

—I can grill a few steaks and make a big salad. Your father can finish the stew from lunch if he’s still hungry. Why did you have to give that shoemaker a chicken?

—Violeta’s father gets more mail from Italy than we do.

—It’s time for me to go home; tonight I’ll make croquettes for supper, the kids like them, and if I put them on the table without a word, Lito will eat them too.

—I don’t know why he doesn’t see a doctor.

—Pop, I want you to kill me a chicken for Sunday.

—I always eat everything and I never have trouble.

—What a bull-headed man. Just because you can eat like an ox you think everybody else can. How bull-headed can you get?

—Lito’s stomach is a mess, he has to be careful.

—And his brother is the same. They all have weak stomachs, it runs in the family.

—It doesn’t run in the family. It was the sister-in-law who finished off Lito’s stomach. Even when we were engaged he’d complain to me about his digestion. I’d ask him what he had to eat and it was always the same: spicy food.

—When Lito was living with his brother he already had stomach trouble.

—And my sister-in-law keeps making those horrible stews. She spices the food by drowning it in hot pepper. The only thing that crosses her mind is to add more hot peppers.

—She’s always out, that woman. When does she have time to cook?

—A good stew takes a long time, and watching over. Mom, you don’t know what a help it is to grow your own greens, if you don’t there’re so many things you have to buy, all kinds of greens and seasonings that aren’t spicy. You have to have basil and rosemary and lots of parsley. And she never has anything in the kitchen, so the last minute she throws hot peppers in the pot and any meal she makes comes out too rich, even if she pays a fortune for lean meat.

—I don’t know how Mita does it because Berto has a very weak stomach too.

—If he eats calmly he digests everything. Mita says his problem is nerves, he doesn’t have the weak stomach Lito has.

—Grandpa left to take the chicken to Violeta’s father. Can I go with him, Mommy?

—He went out with that gray apron on again. If Mita saw him go out with that gray apron on she’d be furious.

—Clara, your father’s one pleasure in life is to walk around with that apron on.

—Mita wouldn’t stand up for Violeta anymore if she knew what Violeta was saying about her.

—Mommy, Grandpa already crossed the street so I couldn’t follow him.

—But Adela couldn’t have studied with such poor eyesight. Remember the headaches she’d get.

—Such long hours at that place, and besides which, she has to work with the light on.

—If Mita came to live in La Plata, would she still want to keep on with her career? Sofia’s father could get her into the university as somebody’s assistant.

—How I’d love to see Mita’s baby.

—No, what Berto wants is for Mita not to work anymore, as soon as his affairs get straightened out a bit.

—I am completely worn out.

—Violeta thought you worked from nine to six, and she had to go make supper for her father. She says hello.

—Did she have anything to tell me?

—She began to tell Clara about a man at the office.

—I wanted to talk to Violeta, poor thing. Her father makes his own supper. Who knows where she went.

—She said she had to go make supper for her father, she left before seven.

—Mom, I’m completely worn out. What did you do today?

—I was planning to clean the stair rug but once Clara came we sat down to do a little sewing.

—Did you persuade her to make Mita’s bedspread?

—She’s going to send all the patterns. How I’d love to see Mita’s baby!

—The tile floor looks so beautiful with the new wax. While I was waiting for you to open the door in the vestibule I could see how it shined all the way from the vestibule to the end of the hallway.

—Clara was right, but I’m not going to let her wax it for me again, she has enough to do with her house and the children and her husband. Because he likes croquettes and can’t eat fried food. Clara takes the time to boil the meat for him, cut it up, season it with rosemary and cheese and pop it in the oven for a few minutes till the croquettes turn golden brown. They look like real croquettes; she fools the eye and doesn’t upset the stomach.

—If it has to be waxed next Saturday, I can wax the whole thing for you in the afternoon.

—Violeta didn’t know you had such long hours.

—There was a lot of work today.

—Violeta complained that her typewriter is on a high desk, and she gets tired.

—In her office there isn’t half the work there is in mine.

—She had her eyes made up like a gypsy. She must have gone to meet that man.

—But if he’s married he must be home eating supper at this hour.

—Then she must have gone to meet someone else.

—What do you expect her to do? If she goes home, all she’ll find there is her father.

—I sometimes think what if all the mothers came back from their graves?

—First you have to sweep, then you go over it with a dry mop till the floor’s clean enough to take the wax. Then you dip the mop in the wax, without soaking it, and you spread an even coat of wax over the whole floor. Then you let it dry a little and then comes the most tiring part, which is walking over it with rags to bring out the shine.

—It wouldn’t have turned out this way if her mother was alive.

—In the summer you’ll be able to see more than the shiny tile of the vestibule and the hallway, the doors that go from the hallway to the patio will be opened and you’ll be able to see the shiny tile right to the very end of the patio.

—Mita says she doesn’t feel like decorating the house she’s rented because it’s so old.

—The worst is that in Vallejos it costs so much to have a garden.

—It’s nice to have this big house but it’s also a lot of work to keep it clean.

—Poor Mita can’t take advantage of it.

—I don’t want you ever to wear that apron outside the chicken coop.

—Pop, set the table. I’m tired. My back hurts.

—How long since there’ve been any letters from Italy?

—There was a letter from Mita yesterday but nothing else. I’d like to send a picture of the house to Italy.

—What was in the package Clara took?

—Stale bread for crumbs.

—Didn’t you send any picture of the house to Italy? Send them one, they’re always anxious to hear from us.

—I’ll write them, even though they haven’t written.

—They’ll write when they finish cutting the alfalfa.

—Mita says she’s afraid of spring beginning in Vallejos because that’s when the wind and dust really blow around.

—Adela, write your sister, she’s always anxious to hear from us. You don’t know what it’s like to be away from home.

—What should I tell her?

—Don’t tell her I went out with the gray apron. Tell her to come see us soon, we want to see the baby.

—And many regards to Berto.

—Tell her if they come to live in La Plata they can live with us, the house is more than big enough. We could find a good job for Berto.

—Don’t be bull-headed Pop. He already told you he doesn’t want to work for anybody.

—Tell her you met Sofia Cabalús, lie to her.

—I always think of calling her on the phone and then I forget. I’ll call her tomorrow from the office.

—Lie to Mita. Tell her Sofia Cabalús promised you her father could get her a job in the university, as assistant to some professor.

—Did Violeta have any new gossip?

—She started to talk about Mita, why she went through all the business of studying pharmacy instead of what she wanted, and then she went and got married and doesn’t plan to practice anymore.

—I’m going to write Mita to tell her that if she’s here in La Plata, and better still if she’s working at the university, she can register at the School of Liberal Arts like she wanted to.

—Enough studying! When is it going to stop?

—Pop, if you eat any more you’ll burst.

—Don’t give Clara so much stale bread, I won’t have enough for the chickens.

—I already grated a jar full of bread crumbs for veal cutlets, so all that’s left over this week you can give to the chickens.

—You complain that there’s no bread and you’re the one who eats so much bread at the table, I don’t know how it all fits in your stomach.

—Where are they showing the Carlos Palau movie?

—It’s a first-run, at the Select.

—When it’s cheaper, I want to see it.

—In the picture in the newspaper he looked just like Berto.

—Today all Violeta did was criticize Mita, because Mita was so crazy about the movies.

—You know, I think Violeta wrote Mita and Mita didn’t answer back.

—That’s why she’s against Mita.

—In the last letter Mita put at the end: This letter is for Violeta too.

—Violeta wanted a letter all for herself.

—What did she say?

—That Mita was movie-crazy and that she always gets her way and she married Berto who looks like a movie actor.

—If you don’t eat you’re going to get sick.

—I’m so tired I lost my appetite. Today my glasses fell on the ground, I almost died.

—Where?

—On the street. If they break on me again I’ll die.

—When do you have to go back to the optometrist?

—It seems a pity to waste my eyes on the movies, otherwise I’d go see Carlos Palau.

—He looks like Berto, especially from the side.

—If Mita could get a job at the university we could meet in front of my office. When I go by the windows of the library I always think of Mita.

—To think that after all the hours she spent studying she still wanted to go there with Sofia.

—To read even more, Mita has eyes of steel.

—For reading novels.

—-I always see the same faces there, there’s so little light in that library. Those miserable lamps hanging from the ceiling are black with dirt, they each have white glass shades, like ballet tutus, but absolutely black with soot. With a rag soaked in turpentine they could be cleaned in a minute, the lights as well as the shades, and there would be more light in that library.

II

AT BERTO’S, VALLEJOS, 1933

—Just because we’re maids they think they can pull up our skirts and do anything they want to.

—I’m not a maid, I’m the baby’s nurse.

—That’s because you’re still young. Later on you’ll be a maid.

—Don’t talk so loud, you’ll wake up the baby.

—But never go home alone at night on those dirt streets.

—The nurses at the hospital who go home at night all live on those dirt streets, and they go home alone.

—Those nurses are all tramps.

—One of them had a bastard.

—You better be careful since they can see you’re a maid and I’ll bet you’re on their list already, even if you are only twelve. One of those bums who live around your house might chase you.

—Their teeth are brown from salty well water.

—I’ll bet you’re on their list.

—You’re who’s on their list.

—You just be careful, they already know your father threw your sister out of the house for having a bastard.

—Sleep, Totie, sleep. Be good and go back to sleep. That’s it, that’s it… This shitty bitch thinks I’m one of her kind.

—You got to be more careful than ever now that you got your period. You’ve had it if they pull the wool over your eyes. They’ll make you a baby in no time.

—Let her talk, the bitch. My Totie, when you’re a big boy you’re not going to say bad words, right, sweetie? You’re lucky you’re not like Ines, she’s not lucky at all, poor little thing without a father. Where is my sister anyway? You think she’s dead? I’m very young but I’m an aunt already, and tonight I’m letting Ines sleep in my bed, between me and Fuzzy, so Ines will keep warm and cozy between her two aunts. If your daddy came home dead drunk and took off his belt you’d get scared for sure. He gave me the belt. Totie, I hope to God your daddy never gives you the belt when you get older. That silly Ines starts crying and all she gets is more of the belt. I wish you would marry her when you grow up, she’s a little older than you but it doesn’t matter, Ines already says Momma and Dadda. When are you going to learn to say Momma and Dadda?

—I have to make the cold cuts. Amparo, don’t be lazy, wipe up the floor, you’re such a slob, the missis already told you what the baby dirties up you have to clean.

—I’m not a slob. Whose apron is cleaner, yours or mine?

—Do they ever sweep the floors in your house? My house might be a hut but we sweep the floor. Even if there are no tiles we always sweep the dirt floor.

—My house has a dirt floor too and that doesn’t stop us from sweeping it.

—The floor at home is so even it looks like cement. Every day, after sweeping, you have to throw a little water on to keep the dust down.

—At home Mom throws whitewash on the floor. Will you go to sleep, you little pest!

—Mister Berto can hear you.

—Amparo! Will you shut that kid up, I’m trying to work!

—Mister Berto is doing accounts in the dining room.

—You’re lucky to have a warm bottle all the time, Totie. Poor Ines wakes up hungry and gets a cold bottle since it takes an hour for Mom to start the fire in the middle of the night, and Ines cries even more if Dad gives her the belt, Totie. It’s a good thing your daddy didn’t kill the head doctor at the hospital.

—Come here, Amparo!

—The boss!

—He wanted me to kill a spider that was going up the wall, but I couldn’t reach it.

—A big spider? In my house there’s a black widow hidden in the straw on the ceiling that I can never get at.

—When Mom is doing the wash outside in the tub I leave Ines with her and I take a pail of water into the room and throw it on the wall, and between the bricks there are lots of hidden spider webs, if you throw a little water on ’em the shitty spiders come out of hiding and I whack ’em with my shoe and squish ’em against the bricks.

—Does the floor look good when you throw whitewash on it?

—That was just a lie, what Mom threw was water with a disinfectant that Mrs. Mita gave her. She threw a whole pailful and it evened out the floor but left some white spots from the disinfectant.

—Amparo!

—He’s asleep again, sir.

—Dress him up nice for six o’clock, we’re going to pick up the missis at the hospital.

—I’m going to put on his panties and the little hood Miss Adela brought him from La Plata.

—Did Mister Berto scold you?

—He didn’t take his nap, he’s doing accounts in the dining room. It’s a good thing he didn’t kill the head doctor with that punch he gave him. He would have gone to jail.

—And he’d still be there. But the missis never said she was going to take you to La Plata, what are you complaining about?

—If she hadn’t lost her vacation, she would have taken me to La Plata.

—Will you mop the floor once and for all.

—I’m glad Mister Berto didn’t kill him.

—How many quarts of milk do you want me to leave?

—I already told you not to knock on the door in the afternoon; leave me three quarts.

—The bell doesn’t work.

—We disconnected it so Mister Berto could take his nap. Come in without knocking.

—Today he didn’t go to bed. If that noise woke him up, you would know what hollering is.

—Your boss got away with it more than once he just better not holler so much.

—You ought to know the drought killed off Mister Berto’s steers. You were lucky but if you knock on the door again, I hope all your cows die too.

—That’s because I got only four cows, and I take care of them myself. Those who had a lot screwed themselves good.

—Get out of this kitchen and go home, your cows are dying.

—I’m not talking to you. What a pretty apron you have there, Amparo!

—It was stolen. This little thief, after her first communion she didn’t return the clothes the nuns lent her.

—Are you going to pay me the twenty quarts a week or not?

—Wait a minute, Amparo has to ask Mister Berto.

—I’ll wait for you on the road. My horse is taking off.

—Mister Berto says he’ll pay you next week.

—Amparo, be careful with Felisa, she’s a tramp.

—Don’t believe Felisa. When I received first communion the nuns gave me this outfit just like they do all the poor girls at the back of the procession. And Mrs. Mita told me to keep it, and anyway the bottom was all torn. She fixed it for me.

—Mrs. Mita told me that when you’re older she’s going to teach you to be a nurse at the hospital.

—I don’t want to, they really are tramps.

—Felisa is worse.

—The nurses walk around with their uniforms all worn out and unstarched.

—But it’s better than being a maid.

—What did Mister Berto get away with?

—With being killed by a jealous husband.

—But Mister Berto never goes out if it isn’t with the missis.

—Yeah, but when he was a bachelor he missed being chopped up more than once. Be a nurse, Amparo.

—There’s a nurse who had a bastard.

—Your sister also had a bastard. Who do you think you are, anyway?

—Why did you wake up so soon? You little brat, I’d give you the belt if I could. But I’m going to take care of you until you grow up. And when your mommy decides to buy the furniture I’m going to sleep here in your house. If there was a bed for me I’d stay over to take care of you all night. What cost more, a bed or a steer? If your daddy had a lot of money like Mora Ortega’s father, I’d never have to leave this house, like Mora Ortega’s nanny… Don’t cry, I’m going to change you right now, I’m going to take off this wet diaper and put on a dry one, if you’ll stay still for just one minute, I’ll give your diaper a little ironing, and then it’ll be all soft and warm, for your poor little sore behind. And now Mora Ortega is grown up, she’s a young lady, and her nanny still lives in the house and has a fiancé from the country who comes to visit her at the house in the living room. Mora doesn’t have a

Reviews for Betrayed by Rita Hayworth

[vivl_6 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Just excellent. I must read more Manuel Puig now!

[jargoneer · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Novel told in multiple voices in order to create portrayal of ordinary Argentinian lives in the 1930s/1940s. It is almost impossible to provide a plot summary for this novel since there is very little coherent plot - what Puig attempts is to portray the tedium of ordinary live in a small Argentinian town using a number of different voices and techniques. If there is a hook to the novel it is the character of Toto, who appears in most of the sections in one form or another. Toto could be seen as an avatar for the author as he shares a number of characteristics with him - homosexuality, love of films, storytelling, etc - but if this is autobiographical it is a few steps removed and seen from an acute angle. Puig is more influenced by European modernism than the magical realist or fabulist writers that have come to represent Latin American fiction to many readers. At various times in the novel Puig uses untagged conversation, stream-of-consciousness, diary entries, a school essay and a letter. For example, the untagged conversations are used as a method of getting across general information at the start of novel, a more fractured and oblique version of "In the town of...". Most of the other techniques allow us to see into character's heads, giving us a sense of the narrowness of the town concerns, the restrictiveness of the society, the hopelessness of it all - it is only through the medium of film (and to a lesser extent, literature) that the characters can dream of an existence outside this confines - and fragment time - the narrative jumps with each new voice. This is a novel more to admire for it's aspirations than the delivery as Puig is unable to fully utilise his chosen structure successfully. The main problem hinges with the voices of the characters - while it is acceptable that they share similar issues it is less acceptable that they sound like they are also sharing the same voice. Puig struggles to individualise the characters even when he changes the technique - the diary entry could just have easily been introduced as another stream-of-consciousness narrative - which undermines the pattern he is attempting to create. Puig never changes the voice, only the point of view. The cultural concerns never really feel completely worked into the text as well; although the book is titled Betrayed by Ria Hayworth and films as a form of escape are central to the themes of the novel, often this strand just goes missing or tacked on. It is interesting to compare this novel with the later Kiss of the Spider Woman in this regard - in the later work the characters love of the cinema is central to the story, and is used to comment on the political and personal situations they find themselves in. In this novel we never quite feel the true escape of the cinema, the hope it offers in face of the hopelessness of Argentinian society in the 1903/1940s. Puig once said that "As a rule, one should never place form over content", but in this case he failed to follow his own rule.Betrayed by Rita Hayworth is an interesting enough read but never fully satisfying as the writer is unable to successfully bring together structure, theme and voice.