No one familiar with Robert Rodriguez, the Texas-born director who has spent most of his career bounding back-and-forth between high-tech kiddie flicks and low-grade ultra-violent schlock, will bat an eye when, in his new film Machete, a half-dozen men are beheaded and a naked woman pulls a cellphone from her vagina all within less than five minutes. Even the fact that it happens within the opening five minutes doesn't necessarily come as a surprise.
What may come as a surprise is the fact that Machete, which was teased as a "fake trailer" during Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's epic Grindhouse, is the director's dullest, shallowest, and most self-satisfied film to date. Of course, the word "shallow" is exactly what Rodriguez is looking for, but there's shallow content and then there's shallow filmmaking; Machete lands squarely in the latter category. Jam-packed with B-movie stars and toplined by the inimitable Danny Trejo, Rodriguez's retro-exploitation shoot'em up doesn't so much celebrate or deconstruct the B-movie ethos as it turns the self-awareness up to 11, undercutting any fun or, God help us, message that Rodriguez means to impart.
Don't be mistaken: A message is indeed what Rodriguez is selling, never mind how he batters and fries it up. The director's messenger comes in several forms throughout the film, which Rodriguez co-wrote with his brother, Álvaro Rodríguez, and co-directed with Ethan Maniquis, but none more so than the titular ex-federale, played by Trejo, who watches his wife get slaughtered by a drug kingpin named Torrez (Steven Seagal) in the film's splatter-happy prelude. Years later, Machete is trying to find work in Texas when he is hired by a suit (Jeff Fahey) to assassinate Senator McLaughlin (Robert DeNiro, obviously having a lot more fun than us), an immigrant-shooting, electric-border-fence-proposing Republican blowhard. He agrees, for a price, but at the critical moment, Machete is betrayed and becomes a fugitive on the run and the new face of America's fear of immigration.
In Sylvester Stallone's The Expendables, the dogged, chummy heroes of the last two decades of the action genre are framed and treated like bruised Gods; the scenes between Stallone and Mickey Rourke are dazzling. In contrast, Trejo, with his sleepless eyes and tattooed physique, enters the screen and is framed without even a hint of presence, despite being one of the most recognizable and seasoned character actors currently working. He has some nice scenes with Cheech Marin, as his priest brother, but Rodriguez squanders a chance here to give Trejo due praise and Machete the size and scope that even the most shameless exploitation heroes have been given.
Sadly, screen presence is deemed to the female characters that fill out Machete's stable. Jessica Alba, as a conflicted Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent, and Michelle Rodriguez, as a freedom fighter who doubles as a food truck cook, rule most of their scenes but their characters remain ridiculous mouthpieces. And there should be no surprise that Lindsay Lohan, as the misbegotten, porn-starring daughter of Fahey's stiff, is a riot. It's stunt casting at its most overwhelming, which is half the reason that, with the exception of Lohan, most of them really don't pay off. The final showdown between Machete and Torrez allows for perhaps Steven Seagal's most cringe-worthy scene to date, which is saying something.
Machete loses its path early, much like the catastrophic Snakes on a Plane, by forgetting that exploitation and outright bad movies are not fun when their camp and kitsch values are rubbed in your face. The key to the so-bad-it's-good genre is discovery, something that is hard for any film to muster. Machete seems inexplicably pleased with itself from the get-go; its hammy politics, both uncomplicated and unrelenting, do not help matters. Rodriguez has built sturdier cathedrals to schlock than this, and Trejo deserves better, to say nothing of the audience.
What may come as a surprise is the fact that Machete, which was teased as a "fake trailer" during Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's epic Grindhouse, is the director's dullest, shallowest, and most self-satisfied film to date. Of course, the word "shallow" is exactly what Rodriguez is looking for, but there's shallow content and then there's shallow filmmaking; Machete lands squarely in the latter category. Jam-packed with B-movie stars and toplined by the inimitable Danny Trejo, Rodriguez's retro-exploitation shoot'em up doesn't so much celebrate or deconstruct the B-movie ethos as it turns the self-awareness up to 11, undercutting any fun or, God help us, message that Rodriguez means to impart.
Don't be mistaken: A message is indeed what Rodriguez is selling, never mind how he batters and fries it up. The director's messenger comes in several forms throughout the film, which Rodriguez co-wrote with his brother, Álvaro Rodríguez, and co-directed with Ethan Maniquis, but none more so than the titular ex-federale, played by Trejo, who watches his wife get slaughtered by a drug kingpin named Torrez (Steven Seagal) in the film's splatter-happy prelude. Years later, Machete is trying to find work in Texas when he is hired by a suit (Jeff Fahey) to assassinate Senator McLaughlin (Robert DeNiro, obviously having a lot more fun than us), an immigrant-shooting, electric-border-fence-proposing Republican blowhard. He agrees, for a price, but at the critical moment, Machete is betrayed and becomes a fugitive on the run and the new face of America's fear of immigration.
In Sylvester Stallone's The Expendables, the dogged, chummy heroes of the last two decades of the action genre are framed and treated like bruised Gods; the scenes between Stallone and Mickey Rourke are dazzling. In contrast, Trejo, with his sleepless eyes and tattooed physique, enters the screen and is framed without even a hint of presence, despite being one of the most recognizable and seasoned character actors currently working. He has some nice scenes with Cheech Marin, as his priest brother, but Rodriguez squanders a chance here to give Trejo due praise and Machete the size and scope that even the most shameless exploitation heroes have been given.
Sadly, screen presence is deemed to the female characters that fill out Machete's stable. Jessica Alba, as a conflicted Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent, and Michelle Rodriguez, as a freedom fighter who doubles as a food truck cook, rule most of their scenes but their characters remain ridiculous mouthpieces. And there should be no surprise that Lindsay Lohan, as the misbegotten, porn-starring daughter of Fahey's stiff, is a riot. It's stunt casting at its most overwhelming, which is half the reason that, with the exception of Lohan, most of them really don't pay off. The final showdown between Machete and Torrez allows for perhaps Steven Seagal's most cringe-worthy scene to date, which is saying something.
Machete loses its path early, much like the catastrophic Snakes on a Plane, by forgetting that exploitation and outright bad movies are not fun when their camp and kitsch values are rubbed in your face. The key to the so-bad-it's-good genre is discovery, something that is hard for any film to muster. Machete seems inexplicably pleased with itself from the get-go; its hammy politics, both uncomplicated and unrelenting, do not help matters. Rodriguez has built sturdier cathedrals to schlock than this, and Trejo deserves better, to say nothing of the audience.
