Silent films, lost to time's embrace,
Ninety percent, a tragic waste,
Their stories, whispers in the dark,
Echoes of a bygone art.
In Mexico's Revolution's wake,
A film was born, a tale to make,
A pact between a leader bold,
And Hollywood's silver screen unfold.
Pancho Villa, a name so grand,
A revolutionary, with a plan,
To make his mark, to change his fate,
In a film, that would immortalize his state.
Griffith, a pioneer, with vision keen,
Sent Thyer, to capture scenes unseen,
Of Villa's life, with Walsh's portrayal,
A documentary, a drama, to enthrall and ensnare.
With thirty million, HBO's might,
A television film, a costly delight,
Larry Gelbart, penned the script so fine,
A story of history, and cinema's divine.
Antonio Banderas, shone so bright,
As Villa, a complex, multi-faceted light,
Charisma and cruelty, in one role,
A performance, that made the screen his goal.
The film, a blend of truth and art,
A fascinating glimpse, of Hollywood's start,
Its impact on history, and the world we see,
A testament to cinema's power, and its legacy.
Yet, the lines between fiction and fact blur,
A challenge for viewers, to discern and endure,
A story of a leader, and a medium's rise,
A tale of And Pancho Villa Starring as Himself, in the skies.
(Note: The review in its original form can be read here.)
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