The Mexican
Written by J.H. Wyman
Directed by Gore Verbinski
Starring : Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, James Gandolfini,
J.K. Simmons, Bob Balaban,
Sherman Augustus, Michael
Cerveris and Richard Coca.
(now playing at theaters accessible to all -
ie - multiplexes)
* * (Two
Stars)
Strange how unstirring and, in fact, noticeably
slight Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts cast their popular personas into each
other's pools. The story, without beating around the bush, is flat and
both seem to be working desperately to singularize their respective performances
in order not to upset the balance attempted through keeping them apart
all but fifteen minutes of the film's screen time (at the starting gate
and the finish line). They feel wrong when they finally collide at the
film's lackluster, almost tired slump of a conclusion (really, it doesn't
even pop off a death rattle, it just dies). The whole film, seemingly,
is about the blind acceptance of love in the face of (some extremely irritating)
relationship analysis, but when Pitt and Roberts find themselves confronted
by that all impending realization moment, you can't help but see the lack
of radiant fireworks in their sincerity.
On their own, Pitt and Roberts have no trouble embodying
likable neurotics - he the haphazard tragicomic type, her a more peppy,
mature brand. In fact, as completely sequestered characters, these two
fit into writer J.H. Wyman's rather dry wasteland of a story quite well,
almost transcending something else, something better, something of their
own.
Pitt is never better than when he's getting tossed
around by fate. As complex a character as Verbinski has to offer, Pitt
rouses the kind of force that movie stars (as opposed to actors) rarely
have to offer: reserved instinct. Pitt, without over exerting himself,
can bang out pleasantness on a good day. In The Mexican, Pitt seems
to be the only cast member allowed to comprehend the admittedly half realized
world of the film. In fact, his character is so entertaining and so stimulating,
I can almost picture him reading the script and fashioning a character
all his own to save this twisted, burning wreck of mediocrity. And he almost
succeeds. Sans Meet Joe Black, he may be the only movie star/actor
who lacks the capacity to be a robot
Roberts is given the greater, more difficult task
of bringing life to the tired irony of a hit man musing about love and
relationships with his kidnapping victim. She gets to volley words with
James Gandolfini, which is intriguing, but none of it ever really takes
flight. For the majority of the time they're together on screen, we're
feeling either sympathy for the banal character Gandolfini has to play
(he's proven his talent beyond being a stock heavy, let it be known) or
simple deja vu as the gangster with a heart of gold begins his long sermon
on the value of romance and true love (as he brandishes a weapon and ices
thugs). Less funny and more irritating than this is the fact that Julia
Roberts, cute and wacky all at the same time, spits out dialogue that sounds
suspiciously like that of countless other characters she has played.
Verbinski, maker of the promising but equally worthless
Mousehunt, does a ton to stifle The Mexican even on top of
the obvious script catastrophe. For one thing, his movie, a small affair,
feels like a epic: it is overshot and overlong. In addition to how poorly
he stages the film's impending reunion, he never manages to grasp the intimate
note Wyman's script requires in order for the texture to appear in sync
with the film. As is, we watch The Mexican unfold like a sprawling
giant of a film which dwarfs the rare human moments. As the film operates
from a level of convenience that, sadly, does not allow for more than moment-to-moment,
intermittent laughs, often the bigger picture dilutes the twists and turns
that, while contrived, at least keep us interested. But never mind all
that. Verbinski isn't exactly the idealist he pretends. He's more of a
sitcom writer. He's confused the differences in presenting a satisfying,
original conclusion to a two hour film with the level of convention and
willing suspension of disbelief that we only address in a thirty minute
time track (on the small screen). I suppose he examined the script, realized
it to be a ridiculous cross-country, one-last-big-score, philosophizing
contract killer amidst feuding lovers while trend bashing all the way yarn
to spin - - - why worry about minor elements like pacing and appeal? This
film sort of reminds me of the arrogance of director Neil LaBute in assuming
that Nurse Betty was a good script and then directing it as if the
content needed no tinkering or emphasis (and we all remember how fond I
was of that film). With The Mexican, Verbinski is still hunting
mice. Only now, he's armed with a budget and two of the biggest earners
in Hollywood.
home
2001
Copyright 2001, Ben Trout.