by Andrew Wright
Once Upon A Time In Mexico
dir. Rodriguez
Opens Fri Sept 12
Various Theaters
You can’t fault Robert Rodriguez for his ambition. Beginning with his $7000 calling card, El Mariachi, the director has adopted an admirable handmade policy, often filling every occupational shoe in his low-budget marvels. Big daddies Lucas and Cameron aside, nobody can touch his status as Hollywood’s biggest do-it-yourselfer. Credit for successes like the wondrous Spy Kids trilogy should, as such, rest almost entirely on his shoulders.
The same, unfortunately, holds true for his misses. Once Upon A Time In Mexico, his latest venture as director/writer/editor/cinematographer/composer/effects guy, is a bit of a glorious mess–exhilarating in parts, but migraine-inducing overall.
Picking up a few years after 1995’s Desperado, this third (and presumably final) installment in the Mariachi series finds Antonio Banderas’ vengeful guitarist blackmailed by a shady CIA agent (Johnny Depp) into interfering with an attempted plot to assassinate the Mexican President. The double-crosses soon quadruple, culminating in all-out war, and what may be the gnarliest shotgun-inflicted wound ever. Narrative coherence has never been Rodriguez’s forte, but his scripts have never quite had this slapdash, 52-pickup quality before. Bad guys die repeatedly, flashbacks stumble into flash-forwards, Mickey Rourke shows up with a Chihuahua–flowcharts should be issued at the door. The increasingly manic action sequences, while undeniably rockin’, only heighten the overall confusion.
Banderas brings a swoony intensity to the main character–no one else can blast bad guys into midair with his sorrowful panache–but his screen time is constantly undercut by Depp’s unchecked scenery digestion. Whether this was Rodriguez’s intent from the beginning, or (more likely) a studio-mandated decision following the success of Pirates of the Caribbean, it’s a bit of a betrayal for Mariachi followers.
Even Depp worshippers may find their patience tested. Mexico occasionally hits heights worthy of its Sergio Leone-inspired title–a sleepy town populated solely by guitar makers here, a church-bound gunfight there, Salma Hayek anywhere–but its manic invention exhausts more than enthralls. Calm down a tad, Robert. Please.