Crime thrillers set amidst repression and political turmoil with the potential to be in the Spanish language are not the first things that come to mind when we think of the contributions to cinema by that of a certain John Malkovich. It is a credit, then, that he has created something in The Dancer Upstairs that feels like it might have come from Latin America; that feels like it may have been made by someone with an adept knowledge of things such as oppression in these places, even as a film made by someone who may indeed have lived through such periods. Malkovich is, of course, first and foremost an American actor, but he demonstrates he's more than capable of capturing on screen what oppression and anxiety bathed in a colonial Spanish nation might look and feel like in this 2003 film.
The film isn't necessarily set anywhere in particular: this is a "capital city" in an unspecified Latin American country whose flag bears both the colour scheme and the potential for insignia akin to Guatemala's, although further reading reveals it's based on a chain of events that happened in Peru in the 1990's and the film itself was shot in Portugal. We kick off in the desert, several years before the main body of the film takes place: a jeep full of young political renegades crash through a small checkpoint, getting away with ruthlessly running over the lone guard. Then they reach the checkpoint run by Javier Bardem's character, a middle aged man who gave up a career in law to join these services. He is Agustin Rejas, and he is kind; talkative and understanding where those wanting to pass through are sinister and without emotion. One of those in the car needs their photo taken to advance, something they are reluctant to do but Rejas talks them through it with the minimum of fuss as if it were a child about to sit in the dentist's chair. One reviewer already pointed out how fresh this scene feels, if purely from a standpoint that generic roles have been subverted: the suited guards at the checkpoint are calm and understanding, whereas those wanting to pass through look like they just want to see your blood on the wall.
Years later, Rejas is a police detective with a young assistant in this same, anonymous Latin American country. The problems in life have escalated from correcting passports to finding those whom to some are freedom fighters, but to others (including Rejas' superiors) are dangerous terrorists: a man calling himself "Ezequiel", whose forte against the state is to apply the usual threat of explosives on top of hanging the carcasses of dead animals from street lamps for the grim spectacle of it all. No one knows who he is, and the police are wide eyed and dumbfounded in attaining any sort of lead. It is Rejas' job to take him down, the safety of his young daughter and wife Sylvina (Lencastre) essentially at stake in that if this ghost-like individual sees all and knows all, then how long will it be until what matters most to our Rejas is threatened?
The film is a binary depiction of this man's world in both a personal and professional sense, the sort of well-made drama you wish more people had heard of and consequently seen; the covering of someone going to great lengths to uncover the identity of this terrorist as well as deal with the ever growing feeling he has for a certain Yolanda (Morante), a ballet teacher who is educating his daughter in the art of such a thing. The strand revolving around these two is neatly attributed its own weight away from the central tract, moreover we observe Bardem's existing wife come off as a bit shallow; an image obsessed individual whom we don't especially like all that much. Where Yolanda's profession is performance, Rejas' is investigation and the dance studio acts as a fitting locale wherein the ballet apparel accentuating her figure and a bombardment of mirrors dotted around do well to hook Rejas in as much as they do allude to a man reflecting on his own marital status during which he ponders his love for this woman.
The film plays like an old private eye movie, wherein the lead is looking for someone dangerous or wholly specific; has to deal with a love interest and is forced, on occasion, into cooperating with those on his own side that are not entirely helpful. Recall the opening act of Die Hard: With a Vengeance, the second sequel to McTiernan's own 1988 original, and try to re-imagine all that scooting around and puzzle solving under a cloud of potentially lethal terrorist activity without the slam-bang approach; replaced instead with something more methodical and more burning. Try re-imaging it with its lead spending the next few scenes after having had to fire a gun still shaken from the experience; picture the film stretched out to a longer running time and you have something that resembles The Dancer Upstairs, a really engaging and well made drama.
The film isn't necessarily set anywhere in particular: this is a "capital city" in an unspecified Latin American country whose flag bears both the colour scheme and the potential for insignia akin to Guatemala's, although further reading reveals it's based on a chain of events that happened in Peru in the 1990's and the film itself was shot in Portugal. We kick off in the desert, several years before the main body of the film takes place: a jeep full of young political renegades crash through a small checkpoint, getting away with ruthlessly running over the lone guard. Then they reach the checkpoint run by Javier Bardem's character, a middle aged man who gave up a career in law to join these services. He is Agustin Rejas, and he is kind; talkative and understanding where those wanting to pass through are sinister and without emotion. One of those in the car needs their photo taken to advance, something they are reluctant to do but Rejas talks them through it with the minimum of fuss as if it were a child about to sit in the dentist's chair. One reviewer already pointed out how fresh this scene feels, if purely from a standpoint that generic roles have been subverted: the suited guards at the checkpoint are calm and understanding, whereas those wanting to pass through look like they just want to see your blood on the wall.
Years later, Rejas is a police detective with a young assistant in this same, anonymous Latin American country. The problems in life have escalated from correcting passports to finding those whom to some are freedom fighters, but to others (including Rejas' superiors) are dangerous terrorists: a man calling himself "Ezequiel", whose forte against the state is to apply the usual threat of explosives on top of hanging the carcasses of dead animals from street lamps for the grim spectacle of it all. No one knows who he is, and the police are wide eyed and dumbfounded in attaining any sort of lead. It is Rejas' job to take him down, the safety of his young daughter and wife Sylvina (Lencastre) essentially at stake in that if this ghost-like individual sees all and knows all, then how long will it be until what matters most to our Rejas is threatened?
The film is a binary depiction of this man's world in both a personal and professional sense, the sort of well-made drama you wish more people had heard of and consequently seen; the covering of someone going to great lengths to uncover the identity of this terrorist as well as deal with the ever growing feeling he has for a certain Yolanda (Morante), a ballet teacher who is educating his daughter in the art of such a thing. The strand revolving around these two is neatly attributed its own weight away from the central tract, moreover we observe Bardem's existing wife come off as a bit shallow; an image obsessed individual whom we don't especially like all that much. Where Yolanda's profession is performance, Rejas' is investigation and the dance studio acts as a fitting locale wherein the ballet apparel accentuating her figure and a bombardment of mirrors dotted around do well to hook Rejas in as much as they do allude to a man reflecting on his own marital status during which he ponders his love for this woman.
The film plays like an old private eye movie, wherein the lead is looking for someone dangerous or wholly specific; has to deal with a love interest and is forced, on occasion, into cooperating with those on his own side that are not entirely helpful. Recall the opening act of Die Hard: With a Vengeance, the second sequel to McTiernan's own 1988 original, and try to re-imagine all that scooting around and puzzle solving under a cloud of potentially lethal terrorist activity without the slam-bang approach; replaced instead with something more methodical and more burning. Try re-imaging it with its lead spending the next few scenes after having had to fire a gun still shaken from the experience; picture the film stretched out to a longer running time and you have something that resembles The Dancer Upstairs, a really engaging and well made drama.