Heartland: Havana Motor Club

In the long winter gale of enmity that’s blown between America and Cuba, one thing has always united the two otherwise opposed nations: a passion for cars.

As most people with a passing knowledge of the communist nation know, when the Cuban Revolution happened in 1959 it essentially shut off the island nation from economic commerce with most of the world. One of the most visible ways this was reflected was in Cuba’s holdover army of vintage American vehicles.

Since no new models were being brought in – aside from a few from Russia, no mecca of motorsports there – Cubans had no choice but to tinker with and cherish their old ones. Vehicles are passed down from parent to child like family heirlooms.

The result: an entire nation of classic car nuts.

“Havana Motor Club” is a high-horsepower look at Cuban car culture, especially the attempt by native gearheads to revive the sport of racing.

When Castro took over, he denounced motorsports as emblematic of capitalism: dangerous, expensive and elitist. His argument was helped by a major international race that took place there a year earlier, when a horrendous crash resulted in massive casualties among the spectators.

In nearly 60 years since, racing hasn’t so much gone underground in Cuba as decomposed into the earth. Just being caught burning a little rubber on the people’s streets can result in arrest and confiscation of your automobile.

Still, a few mechanics and street racers, coupled with a handful of aged race organizers from days gone by, dream of reviving it. Writer/director/producer Bent-Jorgen Perlmutt chronicles their effort to transform the street racing subculture into a mainstream, professional sport.

They have to convince the government to sanction – or at least turn a blind eye to – their “practice events” in the hopes an actual race with spectators can be staged. There are no tracks left, so an ancient aircraft landing strip is scraped of tumbleweeds and cow droppings.

It’s all “straight line” drag-style racing here: two cars line up and hurtle toward a finish line a quarter-mile away. (Four hundred meters, actually; they’re metric in Cuba.)

Perlmutt tells the story through a dozen or so racing characters, who each represent a glowing ember of the dormant dream of racing.

The Titos are the closest thing to racing royalty there is. The patriarch owns an actual auto workshop – no small thing in a country where private businesses were banned until a few years ago. His son Rey drives; he’s the hands and the brain, while dad provides the heart (and bombast).

Their 1955 red-and-white Chevy is a “hybrid of Ford, GMC and Chevy,” Rey says, but his gleaming machine is the current king of the strip.

Playing the antagonist is Carlos, who is viewed as something of a ringer. He drives a heavily modified Porsche that appears to be from the early 1980s. It’s actually owned by a Cuban-American, Saul, who semi-legally brings in American parts to tune it up. Still, Carlos is embraced by many as the anti-Tito.

Then there’s Piti, an independent guy who got into racing after a bout with cancer a few years ago. A true shadetree mechanic, he works on his Ford Crown Victoria on his own. He has a tendency to tense up and hunch over his steering wheel during a race, and is the prime candidate for underdog hero.

Given a rare chance to test-drive a brand-new Peugeot, Piti complains about how new autos all seem to have the same basic styling. “None of these cars has an ass like mine does,” he laments, sagely.

Then there’s Jote, a day laborer who dreams of taking a raft ride to the United States. He’s constructed a truly ferocious beast he calls the Black Widow, including a monstrous motor that came out of a smuggler’s speedboat. The authorities tossed the engine into the drink, but some industrious Cuban divers fetched it out and found it a home underneath the Widow’s dinner-table-length hood.

Jote would seem to be the lone wolf ready to ride in and steal the glory away from the other contenders. But his urge to keep trying to escape his native country forces him to sell off the Black Widow – and his racing aspirations – piece by stabbing piece.

The photography is incredibly crisp and vivid, with saturated colors and the rich, unpretentious texture of the Cuban people providing the background. Perlmutt tends to just let his camera run so we can absorb the chaotic energy of the racers and their rubber-burning dreams.

The stereotype of fiery Latin machismo is on full display here, as the men talk trash before, after and sometimes during a race. Their arms fly away to the sides as they jabber, as if presenting their chests for a thumping. Nobody ever comes to blows, or even seems truly angry at each other; it’s just part of their peacocking culture.

Whether you love racing, the Cuban political saga or just a great tale about tuned-up old cars, “Havana Motor Club” is a helluva cool ride.