ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO (2003), dir. Robert Rodriguez

The Good, the Bad, & the Digital

In 1992, Robert Rodriguez burst onto the movie-making scene with his low-budget action film “El Mariachi.” It was about a Mexican guitar player who wandered into the wrong town, and was mistaken for a hitman by local thugs. Made on a budget of less than three-thousand dollars (and with a borrowed camera, as the legend goes), “El Mariachi” became a cult hit. Rodriguez next movie, made on a larger studio budget, was 1995’s “Desperado,” a sequel to “El Mariachi.” Antonio Banderas played the title character for the sequel, which went on to become a hit.

“Once Upon a Time in Mexico” represents the third and final entry of Rodriguez’ “Mariachi Trilogy.” It re-teams Rodriguez with Banderas, and brings back other actors from the “Mariachi Trilogy:” Salma Hayek, Cheech Marin, Danny Trejo, etc. The movie features the over-the-top gunplay and explosions that are synonomous with the series. But “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” is probably the most mature and impressive of the “Mariachi Trilogy,” and the best film Rodriguez has made to date. It also introduces a new character to the mythos: a C.I.A. agent who wants to turn the Mexican political hierarchy on its head. Played by Johnny Depp in a brave, reckless performance, Agent Sands is a strange combination of philosopher, cowboy, and ugly American tourist. He is also quite possibly the most interesting character of all three movies.

The plot of “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” is labyrinthean. Agent Sands wants to help a druglord/general overthrow the current Mexican president. He has help on the inside from a police officer (Eva Mendes) assigned to the president’s security detail. Sands has no real interest in the outcome of the overthrow; he plans to use it as a distraction while he steals 20 million pesos from the president’s palace. The United States government, however, would prefer that the drug-dealing general not become the new leader of Mexico. So Sands tracks down and hires the legendary El Mariachi (Banderas) to assassinate the general right after he takes power.

Sands also recruits a retired F.B.I. agent (Ruben Blades), now living in Mexico, to keep tabs on the general. One of the general’s henchmen viciously tortured and killed the agent’s partner. Also, the general himself murdered two people very dear to El Mariachi.

Confused yet? Don’t worry. Rodriguez only spends the first half of the movie introducing all the characters, and occasionally bogging things down with plot. Once the second half begins, however, just about everyone is motivated by revenge. Much easier to follow. The movie culminates in a spooky set piece which takes place during the Mexican “Day of the Dead” festival. Lots of extras parade around dressed in elaborate costumes. Then the general’s soldiers arrive and begin attacking the peasants. What follows is a shootout of scale and proportion larger than anything in the “Mariachi Trilogy” that preceded it.

The acting from the three leads (Banderas, Depp, and Blades) ranges from good to amazing. It’s great to see Banderas reprising his role as El Mariachi. It is probably his best role, and the one he is most likely to be associated with throughout his career (Even more so than Zorro.) In this third installment, the character is more weary, haunted by the violence and death that have shadowed him. Not only does Banderas play him as a quieter, more strung-out version of the legendary hero, but Rodriguez frames him playing guitar in front of desolate buildings and dusty ruins. The effect makes El Mariachi seem like a ghost, a spirit, which is how Mexico seems to think of him.

If Banderas’ hero is sedate, Depp’s Agent Sands is a livewire of cockiness and bravado. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why I ended up liking this character so much. At the start of the movie, Sands is clearly a smug jerk. He condescends to those he deals with, and has no reservations about killing anybody. One of his victims is a cook in a restaurant whose only offense is really good pork. So you expect Agent Sands to become the main villain of the film.

However, things don’t work out that way. Instead of emerging as the big heavy, whom El Mariachi must have the inevitable final shootout with, Depp ends up as a kind of anti-hero. By the time he shows up at the president’s palace at the end, his partners will have betrayed him, and he will be out for blood.

Personally, I think I rooted for him to get his revenge because, while Agent Sands is a slimeball, his betrayers are also slimeballs, but they lack his sense of style and panache. Or maybe it is because Depp is having such a great year. After limiting himself over the past decade to art films (“The Ninth Gate,” “Chocolat”) and the occasional Tim Burton movie, he starred in “Pirates of the Caribbean,” 2003's top-grossing movie. If “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” also becomes a hit, Depp will probably end the year as that Hollywood rarity: a respected actor and a bankable movie headliner.

Not that “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” is a perfect movie. While there can be no doubt Robert Rodriguez had fun making this movie—the action scenes are all imaginative, and include guitar cases that double as a flame thrower and a remote control bomb, and a car chase choreographed like a Road Runner cartoon—he probably could have trimmed it down another fifteen minutes. Some of the material, though it looks great, seems unnecessary.

For example, there is a sequence involving Banderas and Hayek maneuvering down the side of a building, as bad guys shoot at them from adjacent rooftops. Banderas and Hayek are chained together by the wrist, and the manner in which they inch their way down, like a two-headed human slinky, is sweet, comical, and exhilarating. But the sequence has nothing to do with the story. It does not advance the plot. Nor does it develop the characters in any significant way. It does, however, look really cool, and I can’t help wondering if Rodriguez shot the scene, realized it was excessive, but kept it in anyway.

While on the subject of excess, Rodriguez’s editing style threatened to get on my nerves. As is the case with his “Spy Kids” movies, “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” was shot entirely on digital video. Rodriguez also edited the movie digitally, which allowed him to make super-fast cuts. Most of the shootouts are edited in a blur of fast cuts, so fast that I had difficulty figuring out what was going on at times. Clearly, this movie was more heavily edited than either “El Mariachi” or “Desperado.” At the same time, the shootouts in those movies were much clearer than the ones here.

I should also point out that those expecting a lot of Salma Hayek or Eva Mendes, both of whom could outshine the Mexican sun, will be disappointed. Hayek gets to fight and leap out of windows like an action hero in one scene, and plays with a child in another. That is about it. She only has a handful of lines, and her part does not warrant second billing in the title credits, which is what she received. As for the adorable Mendes, the movie teases us at the beginning by making it seem that her character will be an important one. Like Hayek, however, she only gets limited screen time.

Finally, blink and you will miss Willem Dafoe’s cameo as a Mexican drug lord. Mickey Rourke has a larger part, and does an interesting Nick Nolte impression as a fugitive who hooks up with the kingpin. Comic relief is provided by a Chichlets-peddling street urchin. The movie has a wealth of minor characters, who pop up at unexpected times and have surprising impact on the story. And it’s these different characters, and the different plot strands interweaving, which make “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” the best of the “Mariachi Trilogy.” While the first two installments were entertaining romps, each was really just an extended chase sequence. However, this third, most ambitious mariachi flick is about these characters, the country they inhabit, and the revolution that breaks out among them. It is also about Robert Rodriguez’ ever-continuing development as a filmmaker to watch.

Overall rating: *** (out of ****)

SECRETARY (2002), dir. Steven Shainberg

Not So Naughty, Not So Nice

Life occasionally gets too stressful for Lee Holloway (Maggie Gyllenhaal). To cope, she cuts herself using any of an assortment of tools and sharp objects kept in a sewing box in her bedroom. We infer that Lee hasn’t had access to the box for a while, since, when we first meet her, she is being released from a mental institution. In voiceovers, she reflects on her time there positively (which makes us suspect that she didn’t get the help she actually needed). She had a routine, somebody else making the decisions for her. Sitting on a bench outside, waiting for her mother (Leslie Ann Warren) to pick her up, Lee seems quite ambivalent towards her newly-acquired freedom.

A quick trip home for her sister’s wedding sends her running for the sewing kit again. Her father (Stephen McHattie) is an alcoholic, the kind who promises not to drink, then quickly forgets those promises because he’s too drunk to remember them. Her mother busies herself with party guests, more or less forgetting about Lee. Only an old high school friend, Peter, keeps her company. Lee refrains from cutting herself that day, but later, she overhears her father slapping her mother around in a drunken rage. Lee runs to the kitchen, grabs a pot of boiling water off the stove. She doesn't hit her father with it. Instead, she presses the hot metal against the inside of her leg. The flesh sizzles, but Lee is so used to self-inflicted pain she doesn’t even cry out.

The next few weeks, she continues to adjust to life outside the institute. She goes to community college to learn typing. Her subsequent job search lands her in the office of E. Edward Grey (Spader), a lawyer who goes through assistants so regularly, there's a "Secretary Wanted" sign on the lawn surrounded by light bulbs. It resembles the signs motels frequently turn on and off to denote vacancies.

When Edward first meets Lee, there is a look in his eyes like a drowning man spotting a life preserver. An utter taskmaster, Edward constantly struggles to control his temper in the face of imperfect assistants. When Lee enters his life, he dumps all the red pens on his desk into the wastebasket. They have been his weapon of choice for so long. But Edward sees the chance for a clean slate in this new secretary, a chance to prove he can change his dominating ways once and for all.

During the next few weeks, Edward vacillates between ignoring Lee completely, and browbeating her mercilessly. But after a particularly stormy session, he spots her toying with the infamous sewing box. Edward asks about the box, learns its nature, then commands Lee never to cut herself again. At this point, Edward begins co-opting Lee's mind. He gives her strength through his own force of will--something Lee might not object to, given how much more comfortable she was when the institute regimented her existence.

But the taking over of Lee's mind leads to the conquest of her body, when Edward directs her to bend over his desk and begins spanking her. However, instead of enraging Lee, or shaming her the way his verbal abuse did, the act leaves her euphoric. Returning to her desk, her face takes on a look of supreme happiness. So begins the main thrust of the film, where Lee submits to an ever-increasing litany of strange acts, including wearing a saddle while holding a carrot in her mouth, or putting her arms through a stock so they are suspended level to her shoulders. In the process, her feelings for Edward blossom into genuine love.

Though it may sound like misogynist fantasy, "Secretary" is actually an emotionally-moving, well-acted drama about soul mates who find each other. What keeps it from teetering into misogyny is how Edward and Lee's relationship never feels like slavery. He never coerces her into doing anything. On the contrary, Lee chooses to engage in these activities. There’s a sweetness here; like the cliched office lovers, they struggle to focus on their work while constantly thinking about the other. The only difference with Lee and Edward is, in their case, there’s more saddle-wearing, and less penetration.

The movie is also unmisogynistic because it doesn't detail a woman falling into shame. On the contrary, Lee conquers the stigma of her urges, then tries to convince the man she loves not to be ashamed of wanting to dominate his secretary. Naturally, he is slow to respond. Edward's overwhelming shame could derive from past experiences with women who weren’t keen on, or were repulsed by, the idea of being submissive. Edward’s ex-wife, whom we meet briefly, quickly sizes up Lee as just the opposite. Was Edward married to a woman who understood too well how his mind worked, and sought to "cure" him of his "problem?" Lee is just the opposite; not only doesn’t she feel ashamed wearing a stock for Edward, she receives great pleasure from being under his power.

Lest we think all the power belongs to Edward, one should point out that, in performing these acts for the man she loves, who also happens to be her boss, Lee unwittingly diminishes Edward’s authority, and brings them both closer to the realm of equals. Conceivably, she decides on how often they canoodle, since her typing errors precipitate his having to "discipline" her. When Edward isn’t giving Lee the attention she needs, she has to fake her own incompetence in order to provide him errors to find. At one point, he still isn’t giving her the attention she needs, so she folds a worm into a memo, and stuffs it into an envelope. This is not the kind of thing an employee normally can do to a boss. We must conclude, therefore, that their relationship exists in some kind of limbo between "boss" and "employee," on a level with more equal footing.

Also, after Edward performs a particularly unspeakable act on Lee’s bare rear end, he tapes a memo to her back, which she discovers in the bathroom. While performing an unspeakable act on someone, then taping a note of their most recent typographic errors to their back, could be construed as degrading them, Lee’s heart is overwhelmed with passion by Edward's gesture. Edward, meanwhile, finds a spot on his tie, the result of their activity. He becomes disgusted. Ironically, though Lee allows Edward to satisfy his unusual sexual needs with her body, and seemingly submits herself to what many women might consider lewd acts, only one participant is becoming empowered by these entanglements, and it is Lee, not Edward.

Watching this movie, I couldn’t help thinking of the fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast," where the downy young innocent falls in love with a man whom, by all outward appearances, is a horrible monster. "Secretary" is a lot like that. Beneath the film’s edgy, almost unpleasant-sounding veneer—this Belle has an addiction to self-mutilation, and the Beast is James Spader playing the kind of role James Spader specializes in—"Secretary" is really a fuzzy-hearted love story. The monster here is more beastly in his behavior than physical appearance. But the theme of seeing the humanity within remains.

Finding the humanity inside E. Edward Gray is a lot easier, thanks to the excellent casting. Maggie Gyllenhaal has the perfect girl-next-door looks for the role of Lee. She is believable as the shy and snivelling secretary. Later, her bright face and expressive features convey the strength and resolve her character finds. Her body posture also evolves, starting out small and downcast, ending up graceful and upright.

After Steven Soderbergh’s "sex, lies, & videotape (1989)," and David Cronenberg’s "Crash (1996)," Spader is probably the first name most writers, producers, or directors think of when casting a character with odd sexual fetishes. But he is also a solid leading man, and does his best work in a while here. Also worth noting is Stephen McHattie, terrific as Mr. Holloway. He only appears in a few scenes, but his sketched-out journey from souse to sobriety reflects the distances Lee travels as well. Lee’s sewing box is her coping mechanism, just as the bottle is Mr. Holloway's. When the crutches they are used to leaning on get taken out from under them, both Holloways are forced to confront their own natures. In the process, they emerge as stronger, better people.

Overall rating: ***1/2 (out of ****)

NOBODY KNOWS (2004), dir. Hirokazu Koreeda

Home Alone Four

A certifiable art house hit, having played in New York City over a month so far, Koreeda’s “Nobody Knows” tells the story of four abandoned children, left to fend for themselves in an unnamed Japanese city. That the main characters are so young immediately arouses our sympathy. The way they convincingly survive for several months without parental supervision engages our intellect. Koreeda doesn’t seek to entertain so much as inform the public about the serious social problem of child abandonment in Japan. Yet the movie is never short of engrossing, with great performances from a nearly all-child cast.

Nothing seems amiss at first, as a woman moves into an apartment with her 12-year old son, Akira (A bright-eyed Yuya Yagira). She tells the landlords that her husband is overseas, and they readily accept this explanation for his absence. But once they are gone, mother and child unzip a pair of large suitcases, revealing two more children: Akira’s younger sister Yuki (Momoko Shimizu), and little brother Shigeru (Hiei Kimura). Soon after, Akira goes to the nearby train station to pick up another sister, Kyoko (Ayu Kitaura), this one only a few years younger. He sneaks her back into their new home, where, over dinner, the mother reminds them that they must never leave the apartment, not even to go out onto the fire escape (Except Kyoko, to do the laundry). We surmise that, the building owners would probably evict the family, if they found out its actual size.

The not-unfamiliar story of a large family and single mom struggling against the odds is immediately thrown for a loop. The mother, it turns out, is crazy (or simply selfish—the movie never makes it clear). She abandons the children for several months to work in Osaka. Conceivably, she also goes there to spend time with a man who doesn’t know she has this brood.

Eventually, the children are abandoned for good, their money supply dwindling (She left Akira with 100,000 yen, the equivalent of $1000, which doesn’t last long). They ask some of the former men in their mother’s life for help, but the one-time beaus and suspected fathers of Kyoko, Yuki, and Shigeru, are down on their luck themselves. Whatever scraps of money they can get from these men, and from their mother, when she occasionally mails them, isn’t enough to keep food on the table, or the utilities on. Their meager support also isn’t enough to keep the sadness of being left behind from slowly creeping in.

For the most part, “Nobody Knows” observes its four main characters as they try to get on alone. Too young to work, not enrolled in school, isolated from the world (except for Akira), they spend their days trying to maintain a sense of purpose in lives cast adrift. For the three younger siblings, passing time consists of playing indoors, performing household chores, and staring longingly out the window. Akira, by contrast, has no time to waste. Practically conscripted into adulthood by his status as eldest child, he has more responsibilities thrust upon him than someone his age should. He keeps the budget, buys groceries, and otherwise runs around the city performing errands while his peers have fun.

Koreeda explores the children's alienated status throughout the first half of the film. Personally, I found this half to be the more satisfying one, specifically because it was less plotted. It concerns itself more with how the family interacts (or fails to interact) with their environment. Not having the regular channels of school or play through which to establish bonds with other children, Akira in particular stands apart. Koreeda emphasizes this social gulf through subtle visual technique, specifically, juxtaposition.

Throughout the first half of the film, he constantly frames Akira walking past kids in his age group. They dot the sidewalks, cluster inside arcades, linger aimlessly in groceries stores reading comic books. Notice how they barely move, while Akira is always moving. By framing him side-by-side with those other kids, who bear their lackadaisicalness with a laugh and a smile, the director makes it clear that Akira, whose smile is fleeting, and who always seems to be on his way somewhere, is not quite living like a normal child. Juxtaposing him visually with other children draws attention to what is missing in his life. Much different from scenes with his siblings, where Akira merely stands out as older.

In the second half, outsiders begin to enter the family’s world, not always to good effect. Two kids Akira’s age, who earlier framed him for stealing at a grocery store, try to persuade him to bite the proverbial hand that feeds him. They distract Akira from his duties as de facto patriarch. Another character who enters the picture is a depressed young girl, a drop-out who embraces the family’s outsider status. She becomes like an older sister to Yuki and Sumi, but her means of earning money, which she gives to Akira, seems to exacerbate his feelings of helplessness.

While the new characters are interesting, and there are some happy moments in store as well, the second half is basically one long slide into increasingly sadder circumstances. Four siblings and a friend, all age 14 or under, cannot pull themselves out of the slump of poverty. It is a credit to Koreeda that he doesn’t try to compose a fairy tale ending. Yet the unexpected jolt towards the film’s end, which I won’t give away, left a cold pallor over my heart. By giving us the ultimate tragedy, Koreeda emphasizes how utterly powerless his characters are. This, I agree, is necessary. It is also almost unbearable.

I watched this movie with someone who lived in Japan for several years. She was the one who informed me that the Japanese public has long ignored the problem of child abandonment. It’s funny, but when she said "ignore," I thought back to all the people Akira and his siblings encountered, who either tacitly accepted their desperate existence, or seemed perfectly oblivious to it. I distinctly recall the scene where Akira and the drop-out girl are at the supermarket buying soft drinks. The girl stands there clean and well-groomed, while Akira looks like Mowgli stumbled out of Kipling’s The Jungle Book. But the cashier doesn’t notice this; he simply takes their money, then turns a blind eye.

Blind eye-turning happens a lot. For a while, the family lives out of a public park, within plain sight of people. Social services never comes a-calling, which leads one to believe that nobody called them.

And therein lies the real tragedy: Not that the kids have been abandoned, but nobody cares they’ve been abandoned. The public does not see them suffering, perhaps, because they deceive themselves into thinking the situation is perfectly ordinary. Yeah, all those other children are Akira's cousins. Yeah, the boy looks slovenly because all boys do. Nobody acknowledges these kids are abandoned. Nobody wants to. Should they pass out of the world, no one would know they had left. No one would know to miss them.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)

REBELS OF THE NEON GOD (1992), dir. Tsai Ming-Liang

The Kids are Not Alright

If you were to ask the protagonists of Tsai Ming-liang’s 1992 film, "What are you rebelling against?" they would probably reply, "Religion. Obedience. Old-fashioned work ethics. Dress codes. Everything."

Ming-liang paints a bleak, fascinating portrait of aimless youth in an unnamed Chinese city. Ah Tze (frequent Ming-liang collaborator Chao-jung Chen) and Ah Bing (Chang-bin Jen) are a couple of small-time hoods who break into public phones and parking meters. For the most part, they spend their loot in video arcades, where the glow of the screens illuminates their dull cow faces. One afternoon, Ah Tze meets Ah Kuei (Yu-Wen Wang), who has been stranded in his dingy apartment after a one night stand with his brother. Immediately drawn to his flashy motorcycle and stylish dress (borrowed from James Dean in "Rebel Without a Clue"), she asks him for a lift. Their subsequent courtship is sweet, but turbulent; he often stands her up while pulling off scores with Ah Bing.

In the film’s parallel storyline, Hsiao Kang (Kang-sheng Lee, another Ming-liang regular), the son of middle-class parents, drops out of his tutorial school and begins wandering the night. Hsiao Kang is a thoroughly alienated youth. He has no friends; his mother’s religious devotion and father’s strict call for obedience incite him to rebel. After a chance encounter with Ah Tze, he begins following around the motorcycle-riding punk. Like a ghost, Hsiao Kang secretly observes, while Ah Tze remains oblivious to his presence.

We get the feeling Hsiao Kang wishes he could be more like the youth he watches. But one night, he observes how badly Ah Tze treats the beautiful Ah Kuei, and a shocking act of vandalism follows. What motivates it is never made clear. Jealous rage? Disappointment? Or is the act meant as a kind of twisted homage, the student one-upping the master? All answers are valid. None of them change the result: Unexpected consequences, which Ah Tze and Ah Bing are ill-equipped to deal with.

"Rebels of the Neon God" is the first film by Tsai Ming-liang. Now considered one of the most stylish Chinese filmmakers on the planet (His most recent forays were 2001’s "What Time is It There?" and 2003’s "Goodbye, Dragon Inn"), Ming-liang already displays an assured sense of individuality in his debut feature.

While his trademark long, static shots may not appear in abundance, fans of the auteur will recognize his penchant for recurring visual images. Like the clocks in "What Time is It There," water appears throughout "Rebels..." in various shapes and forms. But Ming-liang does not use water to symbolize life or rebirth, the most common connotations of the element. On the contrary, the waters that permeate this unnamed Chinese city are an oppressive force. Characters constantly flee the rain, or visibly chafe beneath unbearable humidity. There is also a clogged drain in the floor of Ah Tze’s apartment, which Ming-liang adopts as a metaphor for the constant sorrows threatening to invade the character’s life.

The water from the drain ebbs and flows with Ah Tze’s mood. During his first return home, he lies in bed with a listless look on his face. The water, which has pooled into a troubling puddle in the kitchen, seems to reflect this listlessness. After he spends a happy night on the town with Ah Kuei, the clog clears up. It is as if the promise of new love makes the potential problem of the water vanish. But then tragedy strikes, and no matter how hard Ah Tze fights to keep the drain plugged, it regurgitates. One wonders if the busted drain, which is still spewing water when the last shot of the apartment fades, will continue filling the residence until the lost souls inside are completely overwhelmed.

The youths in "Rebels of the Neon God" are certainly troubled. What troubles them, Ming-liang seems to say, is the alienating nature of the "Neon God," the city. Ah Tze appears to be attracted to Ah Kuei. However, being a lone wolf by nature, he will not allow himself to be tied down. Unfortunately for Ah Kuei, the emotionally-distant Ah Tze represents the closest thing to a real human bond in her life. Without him, romance means one night stands, and making dates with complete strangers over the phone. It is no wonder that she clings hard to Ah Tze, even when he keeps abandoning her.

As for Hsiao Kang, he seems like the loneliest soul in the world by the time the movie ends. Estranged from his parents, armed with a gun, living day-to-day in a love hotel—what does the future have in store for him? His final act is a visit to a phone dating service, but the small cubicle and ringing phone prove unpalatable. Though he may have played the voyeur with Ah Tze and Ah Bing, Hsiao Kang really does crave a human connection. But the "Neon God" is wholly impersonal. Even in the arcades, the archipelago of video game addicts become silent, hypnotized islands onto themselves.

What can be done for these kids? As he did in "What Time is It There," Ming-liang explores the loneliness of his urban characters’ lives, but ultimately leaves them adrift.

Still, the final sequence, a slow upward pan from car-laden streets and buildings to the sky, seems to be arguing something. It leaves the viewer wondering, "Is this supposed to be some sort of symbolic egress? Does Ming-liang long to leave the city behind, even if his characters do not?"

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)