A group of Mexican immigrants looking for a better life cross the US border illegally, hiding in the back of a truck. When the vehicle breaks down in the desert, the driver points the migrant workers to their destination, though they split into two groups soon after. It's an important image to see, especially in our current political climate, and I'm struck by how little we see this in movies and shows. American Crime presented some really great immigration and forced labor stories in its third season -- on network television, no less! -- but by and large, we don't see much of this dramatized. Why? Too timely? Too disturbing? Too ugly? Maybe these, and maybe more. Give it a bit more time, and an Oscar winner within the next few years will feature a story on the Syrian refugee crisis. Maybe they'll get Julia Roberts to star, he said knowingly.
Almost immediately we're introduced to Sam, a good ol' boy shooting rabbits in the wasteland with his big ol' rifle and big ol' dog, aptly named Tracker. Sam is a pragmatic man. Apart from naming his dog with the most utilitarian name possible, he doesn't put on airs with his camouflage pants, a machete on his side, a pale yellow shirt that blends perfectly into the sand, and a scarf to cover his lower face. He's a vigilante in the extreme, a violent man who may believe in anything but only practices violence. If you've seen the most recent Walking Dead season (which I haven't yet), you've probably already seen the ways Jeffrey Dean Morgan can be terrifying. This was my first experience, and it doesn't quite disappoint.
While hunting, he spots the immigrants and without hesitating takes aim. There is no deep characterization at work, no conscious motivation or moral dilemma. They are meat, wild animals to be slaughtered without blinking an eye. And slaughter them he does, with only the slightest hint of passion: "Gotcha you fucker" he mutters, as he kills a woman kneeling on the ground, mourning her already murdered husband. Leaving a mess of corpses on the valley floor below, he returns to his truck (which, you might notice, boasts a red Confederate flag) and begins giggling before shouting to no one in particular, "This Is My Home." Sound familiar?
Of course, he hasn't killed everybody. We've still got an hour of movie to go. The survivors, hiding amongst rocks and cacti, attempt to continue the journey. As in any horror film, though, and many cinema houses, they neglect to silence their gaddam phones, which betray their presence to Hunter Sam. He looses his Malinois upon them, which tracks them down and attacks with teeth that belong to Red Riding Hood's granny. One of the poor souls slips and falls, now broken and mangled on the canyon floor, bitten by the dog until Sam approaches, orders the dog to move, and shoots the man point-blank without so much as a word. Day turns to dusk, and Sam retires to camp at his truck. We wonder, Where is his home? Why doesn't he sleep there? I doubt it, but is all this land his property? Is he even more aimless and wandering than the immigrants? Regardless, his predatory existence is not without its own tragedy. He tells Tracker he knows he's "gotta get out of this hell; heat's messing with my brain." No shit, pal.
Nothing in the picture is particularly unexpected or unpredictable, but that doesn't stop it from being shocking. Is it exaggerated drama? Of course. Is it untrue? Not in the least. Claim racism, classism, nationalism, or just that old-fashioned American love of violence, but Desierto packs a hell of a punch. If the film is meant as a political manifesto or even a microcosm of immigration in the Southwest, it fails miserably. Its politics are nearly absent, apart from the caricature that is Jeffrey Dean Morgan's character, and the immigrants themselves are reduced to nameless targets for slaughter. If, on the other hand, it's only meant to be a white-knuckle thriller that feeds off contemporary anxieties, it's a stylish success. I suspect that's closer to the mark, not unlike the short story "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell, a work meant to delve into a hunter's mindset and the horror within. Director Jonas Cuaron and cinematographer Damian Garcia throw us into the setting as an almost immersive experience (they might have cared a bit more for sound editing), and their vision is one of bleak horror. This desert is dry and harsh, a sort of limbo at the edge of the world, and as our villain obviously thinks, a good place to die.
SPOILER ALERT. In case you can't predict the things.
Speaking of dying, after the initial mass murder, there isn't much death until the end. One spectacular death takes place in a bramble patch of thorns and cacti, as our protagonist Moises (played by Gael Garcia Bernal) attempts to flee Tracker. At the last, he fires a flare gun directly into the dog's open maw, and the fiery explosive horrifically injures the dog, which Sam mercy-kills, though it again seems more out of pragmatism than mercy. Later, at the climax of the plot, the characters play cat-and-mouse atop a physical climax of rocky outcropping. After falling, Sam snaps his leg and cries and begs Moises. He begs for life, for forgiveness, even for water, and at first it's kind of nice because he's repenting, and he must not be a take-it-to-the-grave kinda guy, but then we realize he's not repenting, he's just desperate, and then we realize it's just sick. He's sick, his ideas are sick, and there's nothing even remotely moving about him. He's a monster, not even worth pity in his otherwise pathetic state, and as Moises ignores his pleas not to be left alone, we want to walk away too. Thankfully, apart from a somewhat happy ending for our protagonist, the movie is almost over.
The main problem with the movie is difficult to pinpoint. It possibly takes itself far too seriously. Its vain attempts at being affecting and emotional at the end are wasted on its audience, who by the end are outraged and horrified and don't want to be mollified by romance or hope. I think, though, that the film just doesn't work hard enough to be taken seriously. It only needed a little bit more characterization, a little bit of context and sympathy, a little bit wider scope or stronger narrative logic, and it could have been deeply moving. It could have been heartwrenching, and it could have been spectacular. Instead, it plays things safe, grounding itself in reality visually, which puts it at distinct odds with the vagaries and generalizations of its screenplay. Is it a parable, or is it reality? The filmmakers don't even know.
IMDb: Desierto
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