 |
|
Searching
for sanctuary: Gaitan in Sin Nombre.
|
Trail
of Tears
By
Laura Leon
Sin
Nombre
Directed
by Cary Joji Fukunaga
The
odd couple at the center of newcomer Cary Joji Fukunaga’s
suspenseful Sin Nombre aren’t so very different from
Bowie and Keechie, the downtrodden but hopeful protagonists
of Nicholas Ray’s They Live by Night. And yet, by virtue
of their unique circumstances, they’re a universe, and another
century, apart. Casper (Edgar Flores) is a fugitive from the
notorious Mara Salvatrucha gang, and Sayra (Paulina Gaitan)
is a Honduran en route with her relatives to the vague safe
harbor of New Jersey. The two meet during a robbery instigated
by Casper’s leader, the horrific and tattoo-covered Lil’ Mago
(Tenoch Huerta Mejía); the soulful foot soldier has had enough,
which results in devastating consequences (not the least of
which is Sayra’s strange devotion to the thug she believes
to be her savior).
Part road-trip movie, part docudrama, Sin Nombre (“nameless”)
shimmers with its author’s unique voice and eye for detail.
The gang-infested, impoverished environs of Tapachula, Mexico,
evoke helplessness and despair; it’s like Mad Max except
that, for millions of poor people, it’s real. Angelic El Smiley
(Kristyan Ferrer) seems an unlikely recruit for Mara Salvatrucha;
indeed, his shriveled up granny has the nerve to try to talk
down Casper as he lures the boy to his gang initiation, which
is a brutal beating followed by his first kill. The subsequent
shot of the victim’s hacked up body being fed to the dogs
is one of the moments in which Fukunaga dips too deeply into
sensationalism, but it somehow feels more authentic than the
newbie writer-director’s efforts to humanize Casper. I’m assuming
that his lack of experience held him back from allowing us
to see Casper as a young man fully committed to the lifestyle
of the gang, but then again, there’s something vaguely Camus-esque
in Casper’s acceptance of what fate has in store for him.
Like last year’s Frozen River, which also dealt in
human trafficking and lives lived on the dull edge of despair,
Sin Nombre is the kind of movie in which you find yourself
silently warning the characters not to continue in a chosen
way, because you just know nothing good can come of it. This,
even when you know that the outcome has to be bad. It’s this
ability to reach into your gut and find you wishing there
would be a way for Casper and Sayra to be spared any further
violence or tragedy that sets Sin Nombre apart from
films like, for instance, City of God. Moments such
as when children throw lush oranges up to the would-be immigrants
who are huddled atop a lurching freight train headed north
are a promise, however briefly lived, of renewal, but also
of the myriad ways such hope can be snatched away, as happens
later, when the promise of that fruit becomes a shower of
rocks.
The acting, largely by unknowns, is natural and compelling,
as is Adriano Goldman’s stunning cinematography, which is
equally adept at capturing the gritty urban poverty of Honduras
or Mexico and the sun-dappled flowering trees standing between
that poverty and the United States. Fukunaga isn’t so much
interested in providing a thought-provoking observation about
why some choose gang violence or cluing us into the truly
tragic and insidious beginnings and spread of Mara Salvatrucha—that
could be a whole other movie. Instead, his focus is on the
small story of two insignificant travelers. Their apprehensions,
their history of loss and a sliver of hope of redemption are
more than enough to compel the audience.
 |
|
Start
me up: Statham in Crank: High Voltage.
|
Balls
Out
Crank:
High Voltage
Directed
by Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor
Few
films have been so brazenly . . . well, brazen as Crank,
the high-speed 2006 actioner that found Jason Statham’s killer-for-hire
Chev Chelios with a ticking time bomb for a heart, racing
against impending death as he chased down the thugs who poisoned
him. (Ironic that, two years later, Statham would star in
a remake of Death Race.) Vulgar, borderline pornographic,
and unflinchingly ultraviolent, Crank looked to be
made by and for teenage boys—self-aware to a fault, the film
used video-game visuals in its credit sequences.
And as Crank was a financial, if not a critical, success,
there’s a sequel. Crank: High Voltage picks up exactly
where the first film left off—with Chelios having just fallen
out of a helicopter to his (apparent) demise. Just like that,
a bunch of Chinese gang members scoop him off the pavement—with
a shovel—and cart him away to harvest his seemingly invincible
ticker. Chelios won’t stand for such humiliation, and soon
he’s on a mission to win back his heart. Thing is, his has
been replaced with a temporary artificial heart, and the only
way to keep it beating is to electrically charge it via the
skin. Which leads, naturally, to Chelios putting his hands
on all kinds of things labeled “danger,” between spouting
non sequiturs (“Bing fucking Crosby!”) and offing everyone
in his path.
Like its predecessor, this Crank pulls no punches—or
slices, or shootouts, or boob shots, or dick jokes. (Chelios
apparently has a huge package. Go figure.) In one frame the
filmmakers are one-upping the testicular-torture scene from
Casino Royale; in another they take the action through
a seedy strip joint for the sake of the scenery. They do an
admirable job of keeping the violence straight-faced and the
chase scenes fast-paced, all the while keeping their collective
tongue firmly in cheek. And Statham proves himself to be just
as capable of shouldering a franchise as forebears Vin Diesel
or Bruce Willis, mostly because there aren’t any expectations
pinned on him.
With a cast that could be taken from the next season of Dancing
With the Stars (Dwight Yoakam and Amy Smart return, joined
by Corey Haim, Bai Ling and David Freaking Carradine) and
a mind-boggling list of cameos (from Ron Jeremy to Chester
Bennington of Linkin Park to Geri “Ginger Spice” Halliwell),
Crank is the joke that everyone wants to be in on.
It’s processed cheese: You know it’s the wrong color and probably
horrible for you, but it looks and tastes so good.
—John
Brodeur
|
Site
Search 
