A routine story of an older man who falls for a self-indulgent fourteen-year-old babe and ruins his life in pursuit of her.
These narratives come in two forms. Either the young girl is seductive and intent on ruining the man's happy family, as in "The Crush" or "Poison Ivy," or else the girl doesn't give two hoots about the man who is in her thrall, as in "Lolita," which shouldn't be mentioned in the same sentence as "Flora de Fango". I'm deliberately giving "Death in Venice" a wide berth.
In either case, I think we are all supposed to be offended by the older man's involvement with a girl who is so young. What hypocrisy. The girls are never pre-pubescent and innocent, which would be a real challenge. They're always in early adolescence, built like runway models, and stunningly beautiful and sexy -- and, like Claudia Ramirez here, they know it. Any normal man would want to jump on her and squeeze and pinch her.
In no way is this about pedophilia. It's about justifiable horniness that ends tragically. The middle-class man is Odiseo Bichir, who looks like Robin Williams with a mustache. He sacrifices everything to discover where the foxy, felinous Ramirez has run off to -- his job, his family, his money, his wedding ring, his dignity, his teeth, his innocence.
He bays after her from Mexico, DF, to the port of Tampico, distributing pesos by the wheelbarrow as he goes. Some nicely done photography takes us on a tour of the seedier districts and the waterfront. Most of the screen time is taken up with Bichir's showing a picture to someone and asking if they've seen her. Nobody has. Further, they're all rude to him. Everyone in this movie is rude or indifferent except for Bichir who is in the grip of passion and suffering from a sad case of priapism. You don't really root for anyone because there's nobody good enough to root for, but you do find yourself wishing that Bichir finds what he's looking for because that would mean the film is over.
There is no inspiration in the acting, the directing, or the writing, except in two shots, in which the director makes interesting use of reflections in the gutter. Otherwise, your mind may drift and you'll find yourself wondering about all the wonderful seafood restaurants in Tampico. Mmmm, those fresh mariscos. Tell them Eddie sent you and they'll let you in the back room, where the special dinners are served.
These narratives come in two forms. Either the young girl is seductive and intent on ruining the man's happy family, as in "The Crush" or "Poison Ivy," or else the girl doesn't give two hoots about the man who is in her thrall, as in "Lolita," which shouldn't be mentioned in the same sentence as "Flora de Fango". I'm deliberately giving "Death in Venice" a wide berth.
In either case, I think we are all supposed to be offended by the older man's involvement with a girl who is so young. What hypocrisy. The girls are never pre-pubescent and innocent, which would be a real challenge. They're always in early adolescence, built like runway models, and stunningly beautiful and sexy -- and, like Claudia Ramirez here, they know it. Any normal man would want to jump on her and squeeze and pinch her.
In no way is this about pedophilia. It's about justifiable horniness that ends tragically. The middle-class man is Odiseo Bichir, who looks like Robin Williams with a mustache. He sacrifices everything to discover where the foxy, felinous Ramirez has run off to -- his job, his family, his money, his wedding ring, his dignity, his teeth, his innocence.
He bays after her from Mexico, DF, to the port of Tampico, distributing pesos by the wheelbarrow as he goes. Some nicely done photography takes us on a tour of the seedier districts and the waterfront. Most of the screen time is taken up with Bichir's showing a picture to someone and asking if they've seen her. Nobody has. Further, they're all rude to him. Everyone in this movie is rude or indifferent except for Bichir who is in the grip of passion and suffering from a sad case of priapism. You don't really root for anyone because there's nobody good enough to root for, but you do find yourself wishing that Bichir finds what he's looking for because that would mean the film is over.
There is no inspiration in the acting, the directing, or the writing, except in two shots, in which the director makes interesting use of reflections in the gutter. Otherwise, your mind may drift and you'll find yourself wondering about all the wonderful seafood restaurants in Tampico. Mmmm, those fresh mariscos. Tell them Eddie sent you and they'll let you in the back room, where the special dinners are served.
