Four months after the 1987 release of “Superman IV: The Quest For Peace,” a showdown worthy of “High Noon” took place in a city most folks in Kansas never heard of—Santiago, Chile—between Superman and that country’s very real, very dangerous dictator, Augusto Pinochet. At stake were the lives of seventy-eight people and the future of their country’s independence.
This is a true story.
The villain
Augusto Pinochet was appointed Commander-In-Chief of the Chilean Army on August 23, 1973 by then President Salvador Allende. Nineteen days later Pinochet led a military coup resulting in the death of President Allende and the end of civilian rule. By 1974, his military junta appointed him “Supreme Head of the nation.”
Once in power, he began silencing his perceived enemies and critics through “forced disappearances” and death. Estimates of those executed ranged from 1,200 to 3,200 people. Up to 80,000 people were imprisoned. Tens of thousands were tortured.
One of those detained was a poet, singer, and theater director named Victor Jara. Along with thousands of others suspected of being leftists, he was held at Chile Stadium and viciously treated. While there, he wrote his poem “Estadio Chile” detailing the horrors and hopelessness of their situation. “Song, how hard it is sing you when I have to sing in fear!”
On September 15, 1973, Victor Jarva was brutally killed by members of the Chilean Army. His body was unceremoniously dumped on a road outside the stadium.
By late 1987, Chile had suffered under Pinochet’s rule for 14 years. Anyone critical of the regime was still a threat—including those who spoke out peacefully through the arts. That fall, blood-stained death threats were delivered to a group of seventy-eight actors and playwrights by a terrorist group known to be supported by Pinchot.
“As of this date: October 30, 1987,” the letters read, “the following front men for international Marxism have one month to leave the country.”
The meaning was clear.
Leave. Or die.
The heroes
The secretary of the Actors’ Union in Chile, actress María Elena Duvachelle (who was herself one of those threatened with death), was privy to the immediate and powerful reaction of actors around the globe. Largely due to a piece on the op-ed page of The New York Times bringing awareness to the United States, the union was receiving calls and letters of support from Hollywood A-listers like Robert De Niro, Robert Redford, Laurence Olivier, Meryl Streep, Jane Fonda, Glenn Close, and others—including Christopher Reeve, who was already involved with groups like Amnesty International and UNICEF.
As the deadline drew closer and the threats continued, the overwhelming feeling among those threatened was not to flee, but to fight. These atrocities were being done under cover of night and therefore with impunity. What if instead of hiding, they could shine a light to what was happening? Would that stop the terrorist group, at least in this?
A bold, desperate plan was hatched.
“I called Chilean writer Ariel Dorfman, who was already living in the United States (and wrote The New York Times piece),” Duvachelle said in an interview with guioteca.com, “He realized that if an international star came to our country and supported us, it could help save us, so he got to work. We had thought about inviting Jane Fonda, but he said that Christopher Reeve, world-famous for his role as Superman, was the ideal person.”
Ariel came to that realization through poet and activist Rose Styron, who thought there could be no more universal symbol of strength against oppression and evil than Superman.
Neither of them knew Superman himself, but Rose knew Lois Lane. Ariel reached out to Margo Kidder right away and she immediately offered to intercede.
Margot later told The Biography Channel, “I remember calling him up and going, ‘Chris, look…’ I think you could save lives for real this time.”
Chris then phoned Ariel Dorfman. According to laecera.com, the conversation was as serious as the stakes:
“How dangerous is Chile for me?” [Chris] asked. On the other end of the line, at his home in the US, the writer Ariel Dorfman improvised a response: “I can’t give you the slightest guarantee that you won’t be killed.” It was mid-November 1987, and a deathly silence, which seemed eternal, was suddenly broken by another question: “How could I help my Chilean colleagues then?” insisted that same voice, deep and baritone, as it had been heard so many times in movie theaters. Dorfman didn’t hesitate: “If you go, you can save their lives,” he assured him. “Then I’ll go,” said the American actor Christopher Reeve on the phone from New York. “I’ll go.”
There were legitimate concerns about his safety, but getting even this far in the arrangements had taken two weeks and time was running out for those in danger. Back in Chile, the pressure was increasing against the actors. Funeral wreaths were showing up at their homes. Mysterious cars were following them. There was no time to lose.
Chris wanted Ariel to go with him, but due to his exile status Ariel felt it would cause more problems than it would solve, so it was decided Ariel’s wife Angélica would go. Chris did not speak Spanish. He was not familiar with the political landscape. He would need her help to arrange the the trip and find a secure place for him to stay until it was time for him to speak.
Angélica did her best. There was no global organization to help them. Ariel paid for his wife’s and half of Chris’ plane tickets himself. The event would also involve actors from Spain, West Germany, and Argentina, so pulling it all together was not easy. Finally the venue was chosen, confirmations were made, and the date was set.
Monday, November 30, 1987.
The same day as the deadline.
If this didn’t work, the price they would all pay would be unimaginable.
To make this work, it would take a superhero.
The superhero
Christopher Reeve stepped off his plane wearing slacks and a polo shirt, carrying a small bag with only what he would need for his 3-day stay. Angélica had to wait for her bag. While they waited, two police officers came directly toward her and said, “We want to talk to the…gentleman.”
They claimed there were things they had to ask him and that she could not go with him. Angélica was beyond worried. They had been in Chile less than an hour and already it looked like the mission could fail. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t hear him. She had no idea when he’d be released.
Suddenly the interrogation room door opened and Chris walked out, seemingly fine.
She asked him what happened. He said, “Nothing. They wanted to talk about me. About my movies.” They took pictures with him and politely returned him to Angélica.
Waiting for them at the airport was Actors’ Union secretary María Elena Duvachelle. It was her job to get him to the press conference in support of the actors, then later that night to attend the big rally. They had to go.
The press conference was packed. Worse, it was in the type of room ideal for someone to cause trouble. There was limited space to exit, and in a sea of over a hundred faces it would be difficult to spot a Pinochet agent.
María told radioambulante.org, “We were worried, worried that they would come out with some…someone would be shot. I don’t think [Chris], because it would have been terrible. Some actor or someone who got out of hand and the guys were there. It could happen.”
When Chris finally did speak, it was met with huge applause. The seed had been planted in what free media there was and there was no violence. Yet.
Next they went to the “safe house”—home of Chilean actor and publicist Jaime Celedón. It was chosen for its spaciousness and location in an upscale area. It was also three blocks from the United States embassy.
On the way, Chris emotionally processed that he was the only panelist that afternoon who had not directly experienced a dictatorship. To him, it was so foreign that anyone could so completely take away a person’s basic human rights. He would later talk about the profound effect that realization had on him.
It was now about six o’clock. The rally was at eight. The deadline was at midnight, unless something tragic happened first.
Then the phone calls began. Something had happened. They were told “There is no green light for now.”
A second terrorist letter appeared under the door of the safe house, saying, “The deadline to leave the country has passed. Now you will have to face the consequences.” It included a new list and announced that someone from that list was going to pay for not having obeyed the order to not reveal the threats. This new list included three additional actors and the names of five young people who had been kidnapped. This letter too was covered with a bloodstain.
There was no time to be afraid or back down. The car was coming to take them to the rally.
Angélica and Reeve sat in the back seat. In the front, a driver and a security guard explained there could be rioting, and that if tear gas was fired, they should bite into a lemon and cover their face with a scarf.
When they reached the stadium, police officers with machine guns were everywhere. The car would not be allowed through. At the final hour, the Ministry of the Interior had canceled the permit and closed the event. This was a huge issue since hundreds of people had already been inside for two hours.
Then the riots started.
Maria remembers it vividly. “That’s where the tear gas begins. And everyone was yelling, ‘To the garage, to the garage, to the garage!’”
The Matucana Garage was a converted car garage about 30 blocks away that sometimes hosted bands, parties and counterculture events. It could hold roughly about a thousand people, had a single entrance with a single exit, no windows, and if attacked—no options. But with no time to think of another place, it became the immediate Plan B by virtue of it being known among the group. Through the tear gas, actors and attendees had already instinctively begun marching there.
Angélica gave Reeve the chance to back out. He didn’t. They drove to the garage.
The scene there was sheer chaos. People were piled up at the door trying to enter. A block away there was another protest and its tear gas was choking the air. No one could breathe. From their car, Angélica and Reeve heard bursts of gunfire.
A decision had to be made. Angélica wouldn’t help anything by going in with him. She was more useful as a lifeline. Ironically, her plan was to find a phone booth—to call either the embassy if Chris needed saving or her husband if he was killed and someone needed to tell the world.
Chris was concerned about her being out there alone. She assured him she would be safe with the driver.
She walked Superman over to the other actors. “Colleagues, please…”, she said as she handed him to them. Nothing else needed to be spoken. Six bodyguards grabbed Reeve and forcibly pushed through the crowd, delivering him into the garage—and whatever fate awaited them all.
The end
Once he was inside, every minute was an eternity.
In a garage built for a thousand, over two thousand people jammed themselves onto the floor and climbed on roof pillars. There was little air and a lot of heat, but after being strongarmed by military tactics at the stadium, no one was leaving.
The mood was angry. Chants against the regime continued unabated. They no longer cared what the police heard. This was willful disobedience like never before.
Chris was seated on the stage with the other guests when the lights went out.
Through either accident, sabotage, or cosmic jest, the garage stayed dark for half an hour. During that time was silence. Not panic, not an indoor riot. Silence.
Undeterred, members of the event repaired the lights. Guests began to perform, read poetry, and give speeches. One sang a song by Víctor Jara. The actors spoke about the threats and the meaning of being there that day. Other guests read messages of solidarity from actors and directors from around the world.
Reeve stood and addressed the crowd.
“I’m here to show support to the threatened actors of this country,” he said, then read a letter he had brought with him.
“‘You have our support at this difficult time that the Chilean people are experiencing, and receive our admiration for the creative work you continue to do under conditions of threat and pressure.’ And here are the signatures, a great many…it is on behalf of thirty-eight thousand American actors.”
The applause he received was both deafening and humbling. Chris was noticeably moved. María remembers, “I think [he] has never forgotten that moment. Only in movies could he have lived it. People who, suddenly one sang, another told him he was proud to have him here in this country.”
Nicolás Alonso, the editor of racioambulante.org, characterized the events poetically:
“The actors translated for him and he would give an opinion, ask a question, but he wasn’t the center of attention, either. As the time for the ultimatum approached, people continued to talk and sing, and the fear subsided. They were together and that somehow made them feel safe, as safe as they could feel in that Chile. Some applauded, others laughed. The vibe in the air was not one of terror. At one point in the evening, Reeve read his letter and said a few words, but what he said was recorded only in the memory of those who were present.
“He also thanked them for that amazing day, and said that he would tell, on his return to the United States, how brave and beautiful everyone there was. It was around eleven at night and no one had come in to kill them. Perhaps because “The 78” were in that garage together, with actors from abroad and thousands of people there, supporting them. Or maybe because the purpose of the letter was never other than to instill terror. There was no way of knowing, but something had become clear: They had survived. Fear had not been able to win over them.”
It worked.
There was no retribution. No military-fueled tragedy. No one died. Fear did not win.
Perhaps Pinochet did not want to incur the negative worldwide judgement that would surely have turned against him if he had played any part in the of death of Superman.
Perhaps the presence of the real Superman—who cared enough to fly in from across the world in a crisis—steeled even more resolve in the Chilean people to rally around the chance for truth and justice with a strength of their own.
Either way, he made them believe.
In 1988, Chris contributed his new legendary status that arose from those events to be the face of one of the “No” campaign ads for the plebiscite—a vote by which the people of an entire country express an opinion for or against a proposal, especially on a choice of government or ruler.
In the ad, Reeve reassured the voters, scarred by decades of threats and intimidation, to “Remember that the ballot is secret. And the future of your country…is in your hands.”
On October 5, 1988, the election took place. The “No” votes won. The subsequent constitutional process led to presidential and legislative elections the following year. Chile became a Presidential Republic and has remained one ever since.
The reign of Pinochet was over.
On January 28, 2004, Chilean Foreign Secretary María Soledad Alvear bookended history in the most beautiful way—this time traversing the distance from Chile to America to see Superman.
In a touching ceremony at his home, she bestowed Chris with the Grand Cross of the Bernardo O’Higgins Order—the highest honor that can be bestowed upon foreigners who have a distinguished participation in Chile in different fields: the arts, science, education, industry, commerce and human and social cooperation—for his actions defending Chilean human rights.
“Christopher Reeve was one of those human beings who in the zenith of their careers were willing to raise their voices for human rights in Chile during some of the darkest years of our history, and we’ve come to express our gratefulness with this distinction,” said Ms. Alvear at the ceremony.
Once again, he was noticeably moved. Through his paralysis, through his struggle to speak, through the distance of years past, his eyes and tone reached out and bathed the room with gratitude and memories.
“I will never forget my time in Chile,” he told her. “I never will.”
