The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada
2005
Director: Tommy Lee JonesCast: Tommy Lee Jones, Barry Pepper, Julio César Cedillo
A
hen Eastwood’s Unforgiven came out I remember thinking how amazing it was that the quintessential cowboy actor could reinvent the genre, classically—in old age—as a… director. It’s not something you’d think possible, although it makes a certain amount of sense. But that’s the genius of genius, finally, inn’it? Staring you in the face the whole time, you just don’t got the eyes to see it. I suppose, to be fair, being the quintessential cowboy and a brilliant director (who’da thought?) an’all, Clint gets sent every Western script penned by the living or dead so he can cherry-pick, a’course, but Clint’s got a nose for a great script, a knack for development, apparently, and a feel for the lay of the land—the West. And, damn if Tommy Lee Jones ain’t cut from the same bolt of cloth! What’s more, he’s made a Nuevo Vague Western, a Spaghetti Western written by Mexican Guillermo Arriaga (21 Grams) and produced by Luc Besson’s Europacorp and Tommy Lee, who stars and directs.
The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada won the Cannes Film Festival’s “Best Screenplay” and “Best Male Lead” awards. Not bad for a directorial debut (who’da thought?)… not bad’t’all.
Born and raised in Central Texas and a former ranch owner for years in the Davis Mountains in West Texas, the quarter-Indian Jones speaks a very respectable Spanish, too, of which probably a third of the film is in, with subtitles. Strange considering the supposed American aversion to subtitles (but maybe that crawl at the bottom of the TV screen is starting to have some positive effects, yea?) Not so strange considering the setting, that Spanish is America’s second language and the “principals.” You know, “above-the-line”, “key talent”… work with me, here, this is Hollywood, babe… at least north of the Rio Grande. South of it, it’s all about Buñuel, Jodorofsky… wait for it… Rodriguez. Independencia. But we’ll come back to that, we’re getting ahead of ourselves… and time-shifting is an essential element of the film—that some would say is a nod to Tarantino, but Harvard graduate (English, cum laude) Tommy Lee knows we all owe that editorial debt of gratitude to Faulkner—collaged according to the titular three burials: once in a shallow, unmarked grave in the desert where he was killed, once in a public cemetery with accompanying Mexican “John Doe” cross (“Melquiadas Mexico”) and, finally, in hallowed ground... home.
But when you’re working on a north-south axis, it’s not about the clock, it’s about the… heat. And the politics.
Bottom line, Tommy, is... I... I just can’t quit you.
The international eye- and ear-hop patchwork pastiche (non-linear story-telling, subtitles, switches from English to Spanish and back, the shots, the cuts, the labor-of-love soundtrack snippets, etc.) is so many multi-textured, multi-colored, sharp, hot fragments of a shattered stained-glass frieze reverse-engineered to explain a murder. A stupid, pointless, accidental murder—manslaughter, in fact, key to the “back-theme” of injustice—which unfortunately awakens the demonio oculto in vigilante Gringo rancher Pete Perkins (Jones), who goes gunnin’ for the killer of his Mexican friend, Melquiades Estrada (Julio César Cedillo): a green, white Border Patrol rookie who’s in for a very, very bad fucking day.
In a subliminal play on everything, everyone north of the borderline… is: from the deliciously callous truckstop waitress Rachel (Melissa Leo)—whose affections shaky Pete shares not only with the local “wetback”-hating, sometimes impotent, good ole boy Sheriff Belmont (a very solid Dwight Yoakam) but her short-order cook husband as well—to the overzealous, bigoted fresh recruit from Cincinnati, Mike Norton (played by astonishing newcomer Barry Pepper) and his bored, cheatin’ heart prom queen newlywed (exquisitely subtle January Jones). The devastating calibre of the performances is a testimonial to Jones’ qualities as actor, director and, almost certainly, human being. The cumulative passion and finesse is remarkable, the respect the other actors have for Jones palpable.
The Gates of Hell are thrown open when Pete finds out the truth, kidnaps the agent with prejudice and has him dig up the putrid, rotting, coyote-eaten corpse of Melquiades in his second grave (after having been dug up once by other Border Patrol agents) in order to fulfil a promise to bury him at home, in Jiménez, Mexico, should anything ever happen to him. Pete handcuffs Norton, takes his boots, they saddle up with two donkeys in tow, one carrying the body-bagged victim and the other provisions, and set off into the blistering, thistled, pitiless landscape for an old-fashioned auto da fe joyride that would have brought a tear to Torquemada’s one good eye. When the mescalito kicks in, the donkeys start raining down in slo-mo, the flesh-eating ants come out, the death masks burst into flames, the corpses are preserved with anti-freeze and countless agonies of the flesh are endured by the reluctantly repentant Norton (and natural borned up actor Pepper.)
Norton’s punishment is as grotesque, gruesome and violent as the Inquisition called Nature—“God” to the Innocents and Sages—or Life, itself… and about as just. We all have our tormentors that drag us kicking and screaming to our Redemption because, whether we’re responsible for our sins our not, we’re all guilty and we have to deal with it sooner or later or die stupid. Redemption is catharsis, but we are forgiven less for assuming our guilt than for the permanent change of heart that deep suffering guarantees. Mike Norton wins his dignity and decency back, ultimately—as most of us do, in spite of the absurdity—and is left kneeling in Paradise; Melquiades’ soul is laid to rest; and the Devil in Mr. Jones is appeased.
The only reason this film isn’t perfect is because Pete’s reasons for being so devoted to Melquiades are rather feebly established, something that would have properly legitimized his over-the-top brutality, but it’s really splitting hairs. Otherwise, a bold experiment well executed. And I don’t know how much screen time the Academy insists upon for a “Best Supporting Actor” Oscar, but Levon Helm’s cameo is unbelievably, unbearably, unmercifully brilliant.
By: Chris Panzner Published on: 2006-01-09 Comments (1) |