There’s nothing quite like good old-fashioned entertainment, which is essentially the best way to describe most musicals produced during the Golden Age of Hollywood, long before there was a rise in the more subversive or challenging musicals that would come in later decades. The only problem is that they were produced at such a staggering rate, it is almost impossible to keep up with them all, which resulted in only the cream of the crop rising to the top, and leaving the majority to fizzle away into obscurity, despite many of them being absolutely brilliant. One of the finest gems produced during this era was Mexicana, a charming musical comedy about a celebrated Mexican musician who has a bit of a problem – he is constantly subjected to fans that are so passionate, their love borders on physical attacks, which causes his manager to seek out the possibility of making his client and best friend a married man, employing an American starlet to masquerade as his wife, only for the pair to discover that they are about as incompatible as night and day, which only results in a range of misadventures where the pair try and hide their mutual disdain under the guise of passionate romance. Directed by Alfred Santell, whose career dates back as far as the earliest days of the silent era, Mexicana is an absolute delight, a well-crafted comedy with a lot of heart and an abundance of valuable components that make it so entertaining, proving to be a truly charming masterwork that has unfortunately been hiding in plain sight all along, despite deserving a much greater reputation.

With the majority of films, we can normally allow the work to speak for itself, but there are certain instances where it is important to note the context in which they were made. Mexicana was a co-production between the United States and Mexico, as part of what was popularly known as the Good Neighbour policy, whereby it was ruled that the American government and its people would adopt a strategy of non-interference in the affairs of the neighbouring countries in Latin America, and would implement a friendly and civil relationship, to avoid as much conflict moving northwards as each individual country dealt with their own socio-political issues. The film was notably influenced by this policy – not only do characters mention it (perhaps under contractual obligation), but the story of a Mexican singer and American actress being forced into a marriage of convenience for both nations’ respective interests was a clear attempt to simplify this piece of international relations. It is diplomacy presented in bite-sized chunks, where even the most pedestrian of viewers could understand the general principles of the policy. However, as tempting as it may be to view Mexicana as a work of vague propaganda in terms of how it celebrates the politicking of the United States, it has a lot more nuance, which is brought to the screen with elegance and panache by a range of very gifted artists that may be working from a limited set of ideas, but who elevate them far beyond our expectations.

The film is structured around the two main characters, and a range of others who exist in the periphery, and while the film itself is not particularly revolutionary in terms of the story, it hides some oddly brilliant performances on the part of the actors, who commit fully to the film, much more than many would expect from such a simple premise. On a purely individual level, none of these characters are all that interesting – but its when they come into contact that we find the brilliance starts to emerge, with the enchanting pairing of Mexican superstar Tito Guízar (one of the earliest examples of an actor from south of the border becoming wildly successful in the United States) and the promising young Constance Moore being the heart of the film, their chemistry being absolutely incredible. They’re aided greatly by the supporting cast, which includes scene-stealers like Estelita Rodriguez and Leo Carrillo, and in a smaller but still very important role, Steven Geray, whose wisdom is the emotional core of the film. The actors (particularly the two leads) had a lot to work with – they needed to be great dancers and singers, as well as having the right comedic timing to sell the humour, and the passion to make us believe in the romance at the heart of the film. It’s doubly impressive to consider how deeply moving these performances are, since they’re working from a relatively thin premise, which is massively improved by the actors and their ability to find the details in these characters.

As a whole, Mexicana is interesting based on its ability to evoke a particular tone, which is a balance between whip-smart satire and broad comedy, both of which are integral to its success. Mantell’s roots as one of the many people working in Hal Roach’s stable of directors afforded him the opportunity to capture the essence of comedy, mastering the art of slapstick – what many don’t often notice due to the work of people like Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton (who were equal parts auteur and performer) is that the responsibility is not just on the actors who embody the spirit of slapstick, but often the director who is tasked with capturing many of these situations. There are a few very impressive sequences, including one in which the main character finds himself navigating the side of a high-rise building in the middle of the night – and while it’s not the intensely intricate stuntwork that we saw from some silent-era icons, it is still suitably entertaining. This also extends towards the musical sequences, which are simple but staged beautifully – the climax is a logic-defying number set on stage, which someone also includes a river that flows across it. Suspension of disbelief is not only encouraged, it is actively important, and a film like Mexicana reminds us of the virtue of simply surrendering to the madness of a film and allowing it to exist without needing to justify or explain anything, instead of just asking us to get on its wavelength and accompany these characters on this peculiar but captivating journey.

It may not be anything particularly special on the surface, but Mexicana is a surprisingly great musical comedy that offers exactly what it promises at the outset, and rarely deviates from this familiar structure, instead using it incredibly well and providing us with the kind of endearing romance we often saw in these kinds of films. It may be conventional, but as we’ve often seen, there is the charm in following what is reliable, and this film is certainly a prime example of tradition done very well. It doesn’t need to be lavish and detailed, and it is perfectly appropriate that it exists as just a delightfully irreverent romp through Mexico (which is viewed very respectfully and without the kind of stereotypes it would take Hollywood many years to resolve), with broad undercurrents of comedy, drama and romance, all tied together by a series of charming musical numbers that feel as fresh and intriguing today as they did to the audiences that experienced this film at the time of its original release. Don’t let the slight subject matter and inexplicable obscurity cloud your judgement – Mexicana is a minor masterpiece, and a film driven by a sense of wry humour and passionate romance, which is often more than enough for small, quaint musical comedies that aim to do nothing more than entertain.