
Alfonso Herrera
Ignacio de la Torre

Mexico City, November 1901. The police raid a private home where a secret party is being held. Among those attending is the son-in-law of President Porfirio Díaz.
I keep thinking about the shoes.
Not the polished leather of the officers who kick in the door, nor the scuffed soles of the men dragged into the street—though those tell their own story. No, it’s the slippers. The delicate, embroidered slippers worn by half the guests at the baile, the ones that mark them as something other than what the law, the church, and their own families demand.
In Dance of the Forty-One, those slippers are both armor and confession. They don’t just signify a secret; they are the secret, the one Mexico’s elite spent decades trying to erase.
David Pablos’ film reconstructs the 1901 raid on a Mexico City ball where forty-one men—some in drag, some in suits, all dancing—were arrested in a scandal that would ripple through the country’s history. The official record would later claim only forty-two men were present (the forty-first, Ignacio de la Torre, son-in-law of President Porfirio Díaz, was quietly spirited away). But the film isn’t interested in the cover-up’s mechanics.
It’s fixated on the moment before the raid, when the slippers hit the floor, and what that movement means in a society that would rather pretend it never happened.

The first act is all heat and silk. Pablos shoots the ball like a dream you’re not sure you’re allowed to have—candlelight flickering across faces, the camera lingering on the curve of a neck, the way a hand rests just a little too long on a partner’s waist. It’s not just titillation; it’s a deliberate contrast to the cold, marble halls of power we see in the film’s other half.
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David Pablos’ Dance of the Forty One (2020) isn’t just a film—it’s a reckoning. The movie dramatizes the infamous 1901 police raid on a Mexico City gathering of 41 men, many dressed in women’s clothing, an event that became a turning point in the country’s fraught relationship with queer identity. With Alfonso Herrera and Emiliano Zurita leading the cast, the project promised to blend historical gravitas with modern urgency. latestnetflix.com's view is that but what went into bringing this taboo story to the screen?
David Pablos, known for tackling social issues in films like The Chosen Ones (2015), didn’t shy away from the challenges of Dance of the Forty One. In interviews, he’s been vocal about the obstacles of depicting queer history in Mexico, particularly when it comes to male nudity on screen. One YouTube clip captures Pablos discussing the country’s censorship of male bodies in cinema, hinting at the pushback the film faced during production. While specifics aren’t detailed in the snippets, his frustration suggests a battle to preserve the story’s authenticity—especially given the raid’s real-life legacy of shame and erasure.
The director also teased details about the film’s creation in another interview, though the SERP snippets don’t reveal whether he addressed studio interference, budget constraints, or creative compromises. What’s clear is that Pablos saw the project as more than a period piece; it was a chance to confront Mexico’s history of homophobia head-on.
Alfonso Herrera, playing Ignacio de la Torre, and Emiliano Zurita, as Evaristo Rivas, anchor the film as two men entangled in the scandal. Herrera, a veteran of Mexican TV and film, was already a household name, but Dance of the Forty One marked a shift toward grittier, more politically charged roles. Zurita, meanwhile, was stepping into a breakout part that demanded both vulnerability and defiance.
A Portuguese-language interview with Pablos suggests the director had strong opinions about the casting, though the snippet doesn’t specify whether he clashed with producers over the leads. Rumors (unconfirmed in the evidence) swirled about on-set tension between Herrera and Zurita, but without direct quotes or reports, it’s impossible to separate gossip from fact. What is verifiable is the weight of their roles: Ignacio de la Torre was the son-in-law of Mexican dictator Porfirio Díaz, and his alleged involvement in the raid was a scandal that rocked the era’s elite.
The film premiered to mixed but impassioned reviews. On SensCritique, it holds a 6/10 rating from 310 votes, with praise for its historical ambition but criticism of its pacing. Rotten Tomatoes lists the cast but offers no aggregate score in the snippet, leaving its critical consensus unclear.
What’s undeniable is the cultural impact. Dance of the Forty One arrived at a time when Mexico’s LGBTQ+ community was still fighting for representation in mainstream media. Pablos’ insistence on depicting the raid’s brutality—and the government’s subsequent cover-up—made the film a lightning rod. In one interview, he alluded to the difficulty of getting such a project greenlit, though he stopped short of naming specific detractors.
For all its boldness, Dance of the Forty One leaves some behind-the-scenes mysteries unanswered. Did the cast undergo special preparation for the film’s intimate scenes? Were there disputes over the script’s historical accuracy? The SERP snippets don’t say. What we do know is that the film’s very existence is a statement—one that forced audiences to confront a century-old injustice.
In a country where the number "41" was long used as a slur against gay men, Pablos’ work is a defiant act of reclamation. Whether it fully succeeded on an artistic level may be up for debate, but its cultural resonance is undeniable.
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