Thursday, July 24, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Film: Borderline brilliant

The Gatekeeper

By Anthony Allison

With surprising assurance for such a low-budget indie flick, The Gatekeeper tackles a thorny social issue without making it dull or heavy-handed. John Carlos Frey's directorial debut tells the heartfelt, borderline-melodramatic tale of a rogue U.S. Border Patrol agent learning some hard truths about the nature of the illegal aliens he's trying to keep at bay.

Frey's self-loathing Latino character moonlights with a vigilante group, led by a demagogic talk-show host (J. Patrick McCormack), that illegally polices the U.S.-Mexico border. On an undercover assignment to expose the extent of the problem, he hooks up with a group of would-be migrants. But unexpected events force him to prolong the subterfuge and, eventually, face a major reality check.

The Mexican-American actor/director is too clean-cut to be a credible member of the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. But Frey's stolid demeanor becomes less obtrusive as the plot thickens and he and fellow slave-like migrant workers Michelle Agnew and Joe Pascual suffer at the hands of their sadistic captors (Joel Brooks and Kai Lennox). When the group's wise old den mother (Anne Betancourt) starts the down-home, Wizard of Oz philosophizing ("What people do not understand is everything they want they already have,") the sentimentality level rises alarmingly. But Frey deftly handles the emotiveness to prevent the film from drowning in mawkishness.

It's impossible to mention illegal immigration without raising hackles. While reactionaries rant about closing the border and others propose an amnesty for the "undocumented," politicians do nothing, for fear of alienating the Hispanic electorate. Meanwhile, folks seeking a better life continue to risk dehydration, detection or death as they sneak across the border.

The Gatekeeper doesn't belabor the point. But by the time Bruce Springsteen's "Sinaloa Cowboys" (literally) sounds the perfect note of empathy during the closing credits, it's impossible not to be moved by the human tragedy so effectively depicted in this sad, sobering drama.

Jolie bad

There's only one reason to see Lara Croft Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life. Nah, young hormonally hyperactive horndogs, not Angelina's bodacious bod.

Unlike Simon West in the first Croft crock, Jan De Bont (the hack who put wood into movies by directing Keanu Reeves in Speed) doesn't linger lasciviously on the lithe limbs and over-inflated lips of Ms. Jolie. Apparently in the interests of developing "character" and giving the video-game heroine "depth," the Bontman films his bikini- and silver jumpsuit-clad star with pedestrian matter-of-factness while, once more, she cruelly mangles an English accent.

The sequel's certainly not worth seeing for its brilliantly original plot (dastardly Ciarán Hinds seeks world domination with Pandora's Box) or Dean Georgaris' scintillating dialogue: "We're opposite sides of the same coin," purrs Scottish sidekick and unlikely love interest Gerard Butler, whose nasal, heavy breathing suggests he was auditioning for the title role in Seabiscuit.

Nor for the James Bond locations: the Greek island of Santorini, Wales (an unconvincing stand-in for mainland China), Tanzania's Mountain of God volcano and Kenya--where Jolie and Djimon Hounsou meet a bunch of noble Pokot tribesmen.

Nor even for the shark that roars like a digitized grizzly bear, the underwhelming studio-shot setpieces, Noah Taylor and Christopher Barrie reprising their computer geek and stick-fighting butler roles, or the (cheesiest ever) computer-generated monsters.

Nope, the only worthwhile moment is a leap from the 84th floor of Hong Kong's (unfinished) International Financial Center by base jumpers who then sail gracefully over the city. But one spectacular stunt does not a movie make. So resist the hype, Tombheads, and maybe this woefully dull franchise will die right here.