Mondays are the most popular time to visit the Real Gabinete Português de Leitura, or Royal Portuguese Cabinet of Reading, Brazil’s great sanctuary of Portuguese books and culture, and one of the most beautiful libraries in the world, located in the heart of the sprawling coastal city of Rio de Janeiro. On Saturday, June 25, when most of Rio’s other museums and cultural institutes were closed for the weekend, the Royal Cabinet saw an endless stream of visitors. Natural light filtering down through the skylight, dimly illuminating the reading room, with its towering walls of multicolored book spines — nearly 400,000 antique, leather-bound volumes in total. For decades, academics have treasured this spectacular library — the largest collection of Portuguese authors outside Portugal — as a place of quiet study. But in recent years, it has become an increasingly popular backdrop for photos and selfies, with crowds of visitors swarming the stately main hall to gaze up at the walls of books and pose for social media posts.
The Royal Cabinet was one of Rio’s little-known cultural gems, until it went viral on Instagram and TikTok. As the institution’s long-time coordinator, Orlando Inácio, explains: “It’s an effect of social media. They come, take pictures, and make posts, then others see it and want to come too.” The library’s popularity first started to rise around the time that the 2014 World Cup and 2016 Olympic Games came to Rio, when Time magazine called the Cabinet the fourth most beautiful library in the world. Its fame has only grown since.
The new crowds of visitors coexist, often awkwardly, with the library’s traditional denizens: scholars of Portuguese history, literature, and culture. A handful of researchers, seated at small tables, struggle to concentrate on their reading amid the thrum and bustle of tourists and locals immortalizing the moment with their smartphones. Anyone can borrow books, says librarian Sylvia Franca, but few lay readers visit the library for the content of its collection.
The history of the Royal Cabinet is similar to that of the country’s other lusophone cultural institutions. It was founded 185 years ago by a group of roughly 40 Portuguese immigrants, only 15 years after Brazil gained its independence. “They created the library in 1837 to improve the cultural education of the Portuguese community in Rio, since most of those who came had no formal education,” explains Francisco Gomes da Costa, the library’s Portuguese-born president. “They would arrive alone, and then send for their wives and children. They also established literary lyceums to instruct immigrants in reading and writing, and founded relief houses to provide social assistance to the Portuguese immigrant community,” says Da Costa, who himself crossed the Atlantic, alone, when he was only 17 years old, following in the footsteps of his uncle.
Teenagers in beach dresses and flip-flops, middle-aged couples in shorts, and families with baby strollers scramble to find vacant spots to strike a pose in front of the towering shelves of books, which span the breadth of Portuguese literature and include codices and manuscripts from the past several centuries.
Among the thousands of volumes are the library’s prized gems: a first edition of Os Lusíadas, Luis de Camões’s 1572 epic, purchased from the Jesuits; Ordenãçoes de Dom Manuel, published in 1521; and the original manuscript of Amor de Perdição, written by Camilo Castelo Branco in 1861.
For the vast majority, this is their first visit (and probably their last). Such is the case for 40-year-old French tourist Florent T. “I saw the photos on Instagram, and they were lovely,” Florent says. “But it’s even more beautiful in real life.” Foreigner tourists mingle with Brazilian vacationers, along with visitors from Rio itself, many having travelled from the city’s faraway outskirts. After learning about the library from a TikTok video, Lucas, an 18-year-old student, and his friends Kaylane and Maria Clara, took a train and an Uber all the way from Bangú, a neighborhood in Rio’s West Zone.
Professor Marceli Braga, 41 and also from Rio, was familiar with the institution, but had never had seen the inside its majestic main room until now. “We never came before because it isn’t usually open on weekends,” she says. Journalist Bruno Barreto, 36, brought his mother, along with the rest of their family, to show them the setting for his new novel, titled A chave (The Key), which he describes as “a journey through time.”
To a certain extent, the library’s newfound fame has meant that many Cariocas — as Rio’s locals are known — who had never seen the inside of the Royal Cabinet, or were not even aware they could visit such a cultural and architectural treasure free of charge, are now discovering its wonders for the first time. The library has stood in its current location since the building was first inaugurated in 1887 by Princess Isabel, in the waning years of the Brazilian Empire. “Even back then, it housed some 50,000 books,” says Da Costa.
At first sight, many mistake the Royal Cabinet, with its imposing facade modeled after the Jerónimos Monastery in Lisbon, Portugal, for a church, and they make the sign of the cross before entering.
From the beginning, the library was designed to last: it was built to withstand Rio’s hot and humid climate, as well as the potential for fire. This is in large part what gives the main reading room its unique personality — its ornate, Neo-Manueline style and atrium-like appearance. The building’s framework and walls are made entirely of iron, and the shelving is built from jacaranda, a dense hardwood. The tragic 2018 fire that consumed the National Museum of Brazil — the country’s oldest scientific institution, also located in Rio — is enough to give any cultural manager nightmares. That museum also received few visitors — fewer, at least, than the outpouring of grief in the aftermath of its destruction might lead one to believe. In its final year of operation before the fire, the National Museum had less visitors than the number of Brazilians who passed through the Louvre, in Paris.
Thanks to the many donations received and purchases made over the past nearly two centuries, the Royal Portuguese Cabinet of Reading now houses between 350,000 and 400,000 volumes. “We have to be pretty selective with our acquisitions,” says Da Costa. The library includes works documenting the legacy of Marcelo Caetano, the prime minister of Portugal overthrown by the Carnation Revolution in 1974, who fled to Brazil, then under a dictatorship.
Portugal itself boasts one of the world’s most beautiful historic bookstores: Livraria Lello, in the city of Porto. But as a colonial power, the country worked to keep its subjects in a state of complete ignorance for centuries. From the arrival of Pedro Alvares de Cabral to northeast South America in 1500, until the Portuguese royal family left Brazil in 1808, fleeing Napoleon’s troops, books and printing were forbidden. They had to be smuggled into the colony. In fact, the colonial regime’s aversion to education meant that it wasn’t until the late 20th century that Brazil would open its first university.
The Royal Cabinet is also unique in that it has served as one of Portugal’s “legal deposits,” or national book repositories, for over a century — a privilege that, until recently, was shared with the former colony of Macao. Every year a shipment arrives with a copy of every book published in Brazil’s former metropole. “They send us about 10 tons of books a year, by boat,” says Da Costa. Portuguese translations of works by the likes of Thomas Piketty and Henry Kissinger sit on modern shelves housed in annexes that adjoin the library’s main building.
The Royal Cabinet of Reading does not receive any support from the Portuguese or Brazilian governments. Rather, the institution pays its bills from the profits generated by its real estate holdings. “We don’t have a lot of property, but what we have is quite good,” says Da Costa, who previously served as the executive director of the Brazilian branch Banco de Santander, one of the largest banking institutions in the world. “Downtown is suffering right now, but it will recover soon enough,” he says. Rio’s historic center, home to hundreds of offices and businesses, is bustling on weekdays but almost deserted on Saturdays and Sundays, when the only people around are the city’s homeless. That’s why Brazil’s most beautiful library is typically only open during business hours, from Monday to Friday.
Margot Robbie’s self-confessed ambition has made her the highest paid actress of the year | Culture
Self-doubt is Margot Robbie’s greatest motivator, and competes with ambition in the Australian actress’s psyche. She couldn’t believe her own eyes when she first saw herself on a giant ad for the Pan Am TV series in New York’s Times Square. “I still have the photo,” she told EL PAÍS a few years ago, somewhat wistful for the days when she was still a nobody. The script of The Wolf of Wall Street (2013), the Martin Scorsese film that put her on the map, touted her as “the most beautiful blonde in the world,” but she didn’t believe the hype. “I remember saying to a friend, ‘I haven’t worked in six weeks.’ I’m sure there’s nothing out there for me,” laughed Robbie. But Hollywood didn’t share her skepticism. In July, Variety magazine ranked Robbie as the highest paid actress of the year when her US$12.5 million salary for the upcoming Barbie movie was announced.
Margot Robbie may be this year’s highest paid actress, but 17 men made even more money, led by Tom Cruise who was paid US$100 million for Top Gun: Maverick. Her Barbie love interest, Ryan Gosling, was paid the same as Robbie, even though she has the titular role, more evidence that pay parity in Hollywood is far from being a reality. Robbie ranked ahead of Millie Bobby Brown (US$10 million for the Enola Holmes sequel); Emily Blunt (US$4 million for Oppenheimer); Jamie Lee Curtis (US$3.5 million for Halloween Ends); and Anya Taylor-Joy (US$1.8 million for Furiosa).
Robbie’s misgivings about her career aren’t shared by other industry giants. Martin Scorsese compared her to Carole Lombard for her comedic genius, Joan Crawford for her toughness, and Ida Lupino for her emotional range. He described Robbie as having a surprising audacity, and recalls how she clinched her role in The Wolf of Wall Street by stunning everyone with a tremendous, improvised slap of Leonardo DiCaprio during her audition.
Robbie showed the same boldness when she lobbied director Quentin Tarantino for another role opposite DiCaprio in Once Upon a Time in… Hollywood (2019). She sent the director a letter telling him how much she admired his films, especially her all-time favorite, True Romance (1993). The letter probably wasn’t necessary, as Tarantino already had the I, Tonya star in mind to play Sharon Tate in his new movie, describing her to EL PAÍS as an actress with a visual dynamism and personal qualities that you don’t see every day.
Robbie has wanted to work in movies ever since her start in Neighbours, the long-running Australian TV series that is coming to an end after 9,000 episodes and 37 years on the air. “Of course I’m ambitious. My career motivates me. I came to the United States with a plan, and I’m always looking ahead,” she told us. Even as a child growing up in Queensland (northeastern Australia), Margot Elise Robbie displayed her business smarts and drama queen chops when she decided to sell all her brother’s old toys from the sidewalk in front of the family home.
She jokes about her childhood, but part of that little girl always comes out in the wide variety of characters she plays. She has had all kinds of roles in little-known films like Suite Française and Z for Zachariah, and also in box-office hits like Suicide Squad and Birds of Prey. She won Oscar nominations for playing driven women in I, Tonya (2018) and Bombshell (2020). “Yes, many of the women I’ve played share my ambition – this is a tough industry. But I’m full of doubt like anyone else. You never know how things will turn out,” she said.
Seeking more control over her films, Robbie founded production company LuckyChap Entertainment in 2014 with her husband, British filmmaker Tom Ackerley, and some friends. She hopes to use LuckyChap as a vehicle for herself and other actresses, as she did with Promising Young Woman starring Carey Mulligan, a black comedy thriller film that won writer/director Emerald Fennell an Oscar for best original screenplay. “Margot is an extraordinary person,” said Fennell. “That’s why she’s doing so well as a producer who is determined to try different things and give women a voice.”
Robbie met British assistant director Tom Ackerley on the set of Suite Française in 2013. They began a romantic relationship the next year and moved in together right after attending their first Golden Globes gala for The Wolf of Wall Street. Married since 2016, the couple and co-workers in LuckyChap have a bright future ahead, judging by all the work that is piling up for Robbie. In addition to Barbie, she will appear in Amsterdam, directed by David O. Russell; as silent film star Clara Bow in Babylon, directed by Damien Chazelle; and has a role in Wes Anderson’s Asteroid City. As if that wasn’t enough to keep Robbie busy, a remake of Ocean’s Eleven awaits her; she will play opposite Matthew Schoenaerts in the post WWII drama, Ruin; produce a remake of Tank Girl; and play a female Jack Sparrow in another installment of Pirates of the Caribbean. Surely Margot Robbie doesn’t have any more doubts about her career.
Salem’s last witch regains her honor | Culture
As statues of slave owners and slave traders continue to fall in the United States, the embers of the bonfires that burned women accused of committing spells and witchcraft are also being extinguished. In the umpteenth revision of history to try to exonerate the victims, the most recent episode concerns the last official Salem witch, Elizabeth Johnson Jr., from the massive 1692 and 1693 trials in the English colony of Massachusetts. Thanks to the initiative of a middle school teacher and her students in Andover, located in the same county as Salem, her spirit can now roam free. The enthusiastic students began the vindication process in 2020 and persuaded Massachusetts state senator Diana DiZoglio (D), who took up the cause and pushed for Johnson’s pardon, which was announced last week.
It has taken 329 years for Elizabeth Johnson Jr.’s name to be cleared definitively. She was the last of the Salem witches to be exonerated. While Johnson was spared a death by hanging, she was stigmatized until she died at 77, an uncommonly long life for the time. Historians say that Johnson showed signs of mental instability and was single and childless, all of which were signs of witchcraft during that period. She pled guilty before the court of inquisitors. Almost 30 members of her extended family were also implicated, as if witchcraft were contagious, hereditary, or both. Johnson, her mother, several aunts and her grandfather, a church pastor, were tried as well. According to historian Emerson Baker, the author of a book about the Salem witch trials, her grandfather described Johnson to the judges as a “simplish person at best.” Most likely, the judges would have equated “simplish” with different during that superstitious and pre-scientific period.
The fact that Johnson didn’t have any descendants deprived her of anyone to vindicate her good name, as relatives of the other defendants did. The first attempt to do so happened at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Then, in the 1950s, Massachusetts passed a law exonerating those found guilty, but it failed to gather all the names. A 2001 attempt at justice excluded Johnson because, after her conviction in 1693, she was formally presumed to be dead (executed).
The social hysteria against everything that deviated from the norm, against the minimal exercise of free will, was implacable against women, as Arthur Miller’s play The Crucible (the playwright adapted it for the big screen in 1996) and recent variations remind us. The theme lends itself very well to artistic creation, but in real life it amounted to opprobrium for those who suffered it and represented a cause for scorn among puritans.
Salem was more than a witch trial. According to historians, it was a collective exorcism fueled by a puritanical inquisition based on paranoia and xenophobia, a gratuitous auto de fe that unleashed people’s worst instincts: fear and the human tendency to blame others for one’s own misfortunes. At least 172 people were indicted in the 1692 trial. About 35% confessed their guilt and were spared the gallows; according to sources, around twenty insisted on claiming their innocence and did not escape that fate. The rest of the detainees were acquitted or sentenced to prison. The Salem witch trials represented a collective bogeyman through which one can foresee the later threat of the Ku Klux Klan. It is hard not to wonder what bonfires would have burned today on the pyre of social media and extreme polarization.
The great Salem witch hunt can be re-read through the prism of gender. As the adage goes, se non è vero è ben trovato (Even if it is not true, it is well conceived). Witches, like those in Salem and the woman in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel The Scarlet Letter (made into a film in the 1950s), were demonized for going off the rails. The dominant society’s puritanical stance against any kind of heterodoxy or freestyling, against rebels with or without a cause, led people to be targeted for dressing exotically by puritanical standards or for daring to drink at a tavern, a sacrilege for the morals of the day. It’s not difficult to draw a straight line from the bonnet of a witch on the gallows to the handmaid’s white bonnet in Margaret Atwood’s novel: all were women who were demonized, objectified, and scapegoated for deeper ills.
Beyond gender, other historians emphasize the socioeconomic dimension of the Salem witch trials, which combined a deep-seated inequality with racism, the United States’ original sin since well before the Declaration of Independence. The trials targeted colonial society’s most vulnerable during a period of economic instability that unleashed fierce rivalry among Salem families. According to historian Edward Bever, society was permeated by interpersonal conflict, much of it stemming from competition over resources. People did whatever they could to survive, from physical aggression to threats, curses, and insults. One of the first women accused, Sarah Osborne, was a poor widow who dared to claim her husband’s land for herself, defying the customary laws of nature, which granted the inheritance to sons. The accusation of witchcraft ended Osborne’s claim. Tituba, an indigenous slave, was accused of being a witch because her racial origins differed from the norm. Sarah Good was also poor, but she defended herself against the humiliations of her neighbors, which led her to the gallows; her daughter, Dorothy Dorcas Good, was Salem’s youngest victim: she was arrested at only four years old and spent eight months in prison.
Since then, history has not changed the fact that vulnerable women pay the price for circumstances beyond their control. That the Puritans of the time considered women—the evil heirs of Eve —prone to temptations such as the desire for material possessions or sexual gratification was only an added factor. Poor, homeless, and childless, these women in the shadow of society’s dominant morality were fodder for the gallows. But Elizabeth Johnson Jr. didn’t just manage to save her life; 329 years later she recovered her honor as well.
Meridian Brothers: A fake salsa band ignites the rebirth of an old New York record label | Culture
A new album will land on the salsa dance floor by the end of this week; one that fuses rhythms from the 1970s with the technological dystopias of the future. Behind it is Ansonia Records, a label that, after its creation in 1949 among Latino immigrants from New York, would produce several merengue, jibara, bomba, guaracha, mambo, and boogaloo albums, before stopping altogether in 1990. This Friday, after more than 30 years, Ansonia Records will return with a salsa album.
Hermano del futuro, vengo buscando iluminación; brother from the future, I come looking for enlightenment. So says one of the songs from the new album, called Metamorfosis, by the old salsa group Renacimiento. But there is a catch: Renacimiento does not exist. It never did. It is a fake group, and this is a fake cover, explains musician Eblis Álvarez, founder of the Colombian group Meridian Brothers, who had already experimented with various genres, from cumbia to vallenato. A group that practices “tropical cannibalism,” says Álvarez. This year, Meridian Brothers decided to launch a group of salseros straight out of fiction: Renacimiento.
“Renacimiento [rebirth] is the typical name that musicians would give a salsa group in the 1970s,” Álvarez tells EL PAÍS. “For example, in the Nueva Trova movement there was talk of a political rebirth, but at the same time they combined this with a spiritual factor: when one listens to groups like La Columna de Fuego [from Bogota] or Los Jaivas [from Chile], there was a common pattern: everyone was waiting for a rebirth of the soul, and of society.”
Although on stage Renacimiento is made up of five artists — María Valencia, Alejandro Forero, César Quevedo and Mauricio Ramírez, besides Álvarez — when the album was recorded it was the founder who played all the instruments, besides doing the voice of the salsero that accompanies the songs. The album has nine tracks, some similar to the older, slower salsa, and others to the faster, contemporary style. Between the piano, the timbales and the percussion, we find verses with the concerns of the 21st century: love that “communicates by algorithm,” or the threats of atomic bombs that “take us to the cemetery.” Metamorfosis, the single that has already been released, begins with a man who wakes up turned into a robot and longs for a time “when nightclubs really had an atmosphere, not like now, full of cameras, full of drones.”
“I wanted it to sound like salsa from the 1970s,” says Álvarez. “There is no originality, or the originality of this lies in being able to replicate the music as best as possible, but in terms of the material there is nothing original, as it is made with the collective unconscious of Latin America, of Colombia, of Latinos. This is an extrapolation from the 1970s to today, and it speaks of transhumanism, like the matter of highest concern that everything, absolutely everything, is now packed inside the damn cell phone.”
The rebirth includes both the album and the label, as this is the first recording in more than 30 years to be released by Ansonia Records, a company created in 1949 and later forgotten, despite having been one of the first labels founded by a Latin migrant in the United States. Puerto Rican Rafael Pérez, its founder, brought Dominican, Puerto Rican and Cuban musicians from Latin Harlem or the South Bronx, who had not found a home among American record companies, to several studios. He produced his records before the time of the powerful Fania, which made New York salsa famous.
To Liza Richardson, an American radio host who was also a music supervisor on series like Narcos or the movie Y tu mamá también, Ansonia Records is a gem. In the early 1990s, she found an Ansonia album in the station’s archives and, fascinated by the label’s production, became close to the heirs of Pérez. In 2020, she bought the record label with the intention of reactivating it. She, with the help of a small team, has begun to digitize more than 5,000 Ansonia-produced songs; an eighth of them can already be found on streaming platforms like Spotify.
Souraya Al-Alaoui, manager of Ansonia Records, explains that most of the artists chosen by the label were focused on the Latin American diaspora. That was their base; they valued the traditional sounds from islands like Cuba or Puerto Rico, and were not looking to become westernized.
“Johnny Pacheco, founder of La Fania, started with Ansonia Records, and Ansonia was an inspiration for what would later become La Fania,” says Al-Alaoui. “Ansonia was also a pioneer as a label owned by a Latino, an independent label with a founding message: ‘this is from us and for us.’ That’s why it was an inspiration for what came after.”
Over the years, La Fania grew and the seed of Ansonia Records faded away. The label never managed to promote its musicians in concerts like La Fania did, and after the arrival of the digital world, they did not set up a website or try to upload their music to any streaming platforms. Thus, it became a label that was only known by a small group of music lovers, like Liza Richardson and Eblis Álvarez.
“Now, we are hoping to release a new record every year, and we are thrilled to start with this one by Meridian Brothers,” says Richardson. “This is an album that looks to the past but tries to move towards the future, and that is exactly what we are trying to do: look to the past to, at some point, be able to grow again, to thrive.”
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