Even the film’s bold palette of colors appears faded, sun-bleached in the same deteriorated hues that so beautifully suffused last year’s Three Kings (David O. Similarly, the city shows its disfigurement – walls are loose and crumbling, rotten floorboards disintegrate underfoot. Life afflicts physical scars – bruises, gunshot wounds, amputations. Cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto keeps his camera close to the actors, seemingly to hone in on the range of raw emotion conveyed in their expressions – years of regret and defeat deeply etched in El Chivo’s visage, Susana’s perpetually terrified vulnerability, and Octavio’s physical transformation from baby-faced to gaunt as he realizes what he (and others) is capable of. The performances are unpretentious and uniformly excellent, though Bernal and Echevarria are given the most to do and are the clear standouts. Is someone who is taught cruelty – forced to accept cruelty in order to survive – to be blamed for exacting that cruelty? This, the film imparts, is the true moment of trial. The film’s dire realization being – man is capable of even greater viciousness than dogs we’ll even kill for money. Moreover, we can exhibit compassion and cruelty at once, as in a scene where Octavio lovingly bathes his dog before sending him into the ring. The film makes little exception for family rather, the characters’ most malevolent acts are inflicted upon their own. Take away those creature comforts, and we’ll do whatever is necessary to survive. Humans are just another domesticated breed, and like dogs are capable of kindness and loyalty as long as our needs are met. “Masters take after their dogs,” a character remarks, an axiom that does not refer only to physical resemblance. As in the case of man’s best friend, who figures predominantly (and harrowingly – a disclaimer vows that no dogs were hurt during the production, but it looks awfully real enough) in the film’s examination of humans’ beastly capabilities. Like my own, Iñárritu’s metaphors are heavy-handed at times and not wholly original, though through utter conviction he manages on the whole to make them resonate. If misfortune clamps down with steel teeth, escape may require chewing off a foot. Rather, Amores Perros concerns itself with the everyday navigation of life’s traps, those which lay in wait with jaws poised to irrevocably alter our false sense of security in one fateful instant. His depiction of the urban jungle is not about hip gunplay and even hipper wordplay, and he lingers on shots of charred bullet entry holes in a decidedly un-sexy manner. The frantic pace, skewed time structure and plenteous blood-letting will invite misleading comparisons to Tarantino, the grave distinction being that Iñárritu does not go in for stylized violence. Recently released from prison, he attends to a pack of stray dogs and works reluctantly as a hired killer for the same cop who put him away. Rounding out the triptych is El Chivo (Emilio Echevarria), an older street person and former communist guerrilla who left his own family long ago. Furthering their torment, Valeria’s precious pooch becomes trapped beneath the floorboards of their apartment. Across town but a world away, wealthy middle-aged executive Daniel (Alvaro Guerrero) deserts his family for supermodel Valeria (Goya Toledo), only to have her looks and career shattered in a sudden accident (the aforementioned car crash). In a desperate attempt to rescue her and flee oppressive barrio life, Octavio offers up his rottweiler to the barbarous world of back alley dogfights.
Octavio (Gael Garcia Bernal) is an audacious, soulful young man who carries a torch for his battered sister-in-law Susana (Vanessa Bauche). It’s Magnolia south of the border, with a grimly realistic car crash taking the place of biblical plague as denouement.
First-time feature director Alejandro González Iñárritu delivers a sobering, epochal meditation on the dog-eat-dog modern world, vis-à-vis a trendy intersecting narrative set amidst the luxury and squalor that uncomfortably rub shoulders in the world’s most crowded city. ( Love’s A Bitch, Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2000)įrom its gripping opening sequence, a frenetic car chase through an apocalyptic Mexico City, to its final image of man and dog setting off into a vast and empty landscape, Amores Perros strikes like a bullet in the gut – wincing pain giving way to prolonged, dreadful suffering and, a great deal of blood later, finally reaching a surprisingly serene end.