The first couple of episodes of the Mexican miniseries on
Netflix about Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Juana Inés, I found intriguing but
pretty broad-brush. It was a glimpse into (someone’s version of) a
period of history most English people know next to nothing about, Spanish
Mexico in the 17th century. Sor Juana is perhaps the greatest figure of Mexican letters, a genius far from neglected even in her own lifetime: the Tenth Muse,
the Minerva of the Americas, they called her, even while many of the religious
authorities in New Spain chafed and grumbled at the idea of a woman (and a
nun!) writing profane verse and speculating on theology. The amazing portrait
of Sor Juana by Miguel Cabrera misleads with its sheer swagger (remember it was
painted long after her death) and the most authentic image, created about 1680,
is far more conventional while still emphasising the scholarly
pursuits of its sitter, but she was highly thought of and clearly had no doubts
about her own abilities. The series majors on the conflict of the learned nun
and the Church hierarchy, but despite this restrictive set-up it becomes
remarkably subtle by the end, an exploration of the nature of the religious
life, albeit a contradictory and ultimately inconclusive one.
The show looks wonderful: the various New Spanish
dignitaries remarkably resemble their contemporary portraits, and the clothes
are fantastic. It’s all a bit static, as a great deal of the ‘action’ consists
of characters talking to each other in cloisters, and often via a grille (any
conversation between the Sisters of St Jerome and anyone who isn’t, for
instance); and sometimes a bit repetitious, as young Juana first becomes the
uncomfortable love-object of the desperately lonely and frustrated Vicereine
Leonor, and then middle-aged Sor Juana enters into a not-quite-consummated
relationship with Vicereine Maria-Luisa. The central relationship of the whole
narrative is between Juana and her Jesuit confessor, Fr Antonio Nunez de
Miranda, and that goes through thirty years of repeated conflict too until she
dumps him and then, at the last, re-admits him. At first it seems that all the
ecclesiastical figures are simply bigots, intent on reining-in this
contumacious woman. There is Fr Antonio, apparently determined on saving Juana
Inés’s soul from her own intellectual pride but full of his own unacknowledged
motives; her cynical Prioress at the Hieronymite convent, Sor Maria, who cares
mainly about preserving the comforts of the house against interference from
outside; and the misogynist Archbishop Francisco de Aguiar y Seijas who seems
frankly psychopathic. Only easygoing Archbishop Payo de Rivera, the cleric who
admits Juana to her final vows and who likes a good poem and some Indian
sweets, comes over particularly sympathetically.
Then after all this churchy and courtly to-ing and fro-ing,
we have the last episode-and-a-bit where all these characters emerge rather
differently. Poor Fr Antonio, who has spent thirty years harrying and
manipulating Juana into giving up her intellectual life yet (as Archbishop de
Aguiar points out) never quite forcing her, finally admits to her through the
convent grille that he has been at least partly motivated by envy at her
cleverness: that he has tried to ‘bring you down to my level’ by using the
confessional to get her to stop writing. ‘I’ve never hated you … I’ve always
admired you’, he stutters, and then passes through the grille the bundle of
Juana’s romantic letters to the Vicereine that could get her denounced,
surrendering the last hold he has over her. He gets shockingly beaten up by the
Archbishop, and finally succumbs to a fever after a botched cataract operation:
it’s not a happy end. When the Archbishop scours the convent for evidence to
put Juana on trial, the Prioress is one of the very few sisters who refuses to
collaborate (‘At my age, I can’t be expected to remember everything that’s
happened over the last 25 years’, she comments innocently to the investigators),
and organises the copying of her books so that they can be published in Madrid
against the wishes of the colonial Church hierarchy. Finally, it’s the man who
should be Sor Juana’s most bitter antagonist, the monstrous Archbishop de
Aguiar, who liberates her: he visits the convent garden (overcoming his
repugnance of female contact) to tell her she is free to choose what to be – a
nun, or in her heart still a courtier, living in her imagination a life she
claims to have left behind, to be ‘Juana Inés de Asbaje, or Sor Juana Inés de
la Cruz’. He’s not going to force her. You can see the scales fall from her
eyes as she realises how much of her literary endeavour has been motivated less
by pure delight in learning than by the very opposition she has aroused.
Liberation from pressure means she can lay down her pen. She sells her books
and equipment and gives the money to the city’s poor.
Except she doesn’t, quite. The series has to accommodate the
fact that, although the historical Sor Juana Inés made a public act of penance
and never published again, after she died ministering to the other nuns in a
plague, manuscripts and books were found secreted in her cell proving that she
never gave up writing completely. The story shows her treating this as a spiritual
conflict, an addictive habit she has to combat: she even blames herself for the
plague that hits the convent, scourging herself so that the aghast Prioress has
to tear the whip out of her hands, and then breathing in the infected breath of
one of the sisters so she too can die.
In the end I was impressed by the genuine way the series
treats religion when at first I thought it was going to be a bit of a panto. Of
course, from a secular-humanist point of view, Juana Inés’s change of heart is
nothing more than a defeat, and it’s to the show’s credit that it hints
otherwise. Sor Juana and Fr Antonio, at the centre of the maelstrom of misogyny
and power, are shown taking the business of sin and redemption absolutely
seriously. Both deeply flawed people, they see in the end how it goes to their very
hearts. ‘God moves in mysterious ways’, says Fr Antonio somewhat pathetically as they
talk about Juana Inés’s life at their last confession, which is as much his as
hers; ‘God himself is the mystery’, she answers.
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