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Tony Manero (Pablo Larraín, Chile/Brazil): 33

"Ah, one for the boys over at Slant," I thought, and sure enough. For those not temperamentally inclined to celebrate uncompromising cine-machismo for its own sake, however, this is pretty thin gruel, deeply unpleasant without ever coming within spitting distance of enlightening. Once you've been startled by Raúl assisting an old woman home and then unexpectedly pummeling her to death for her TV set, and then seen him pawn the TV in order to fund a replica of the multicolored Saturday Night Fever dance floor, you're good to go, literally -- everything that follows is more of the same. American Psycho didn't really work as a movie, but at least Bret Easton Ellis had a coherent idea, in that you can readily see the connection between '80s materialism, Bateman's sadistic violence and the transformation of Genesis into a Phil Collins solo act. How exactly does living under Pinochet translate to disco fever? Why are we watching Tony Manero and not, say, Roy Neary or Luke Skywalker? I really don't get the sense that Larraín ever thought that through, and Alfredo Castro's deliberately affectless performance (uncompromising!) offers no clues. Ultimately, the whole thing struck me as extravagantly pointless, just arthouse high-concept. Some claim it's intended as black comedy; if so, the joke is on me.

Posted on 10/03/08 by: dangelo 02:37 PM