perdita durango (w&d álex de la Iglesia, w. jorge guerricaechevarría, david trueba, barry gifford)

Emerging from de la Iglesia’s bombastic movie, I was told that it went down a storm in Mexico when it came out, back in the twentieth century. It would be worth analysing why that would be, given that the Mexican lead, Romeo, played by an over-the-top Javier Bardem (is it cosplaying when a Spaniard plays a Mexican bandido as a psychotic?) fits a stereotype of the kind of deranged, amoral killer which US governments warn are exactly the type of people they need to keep out. Much of the action takes place on or near the border itself, which Flavio Martínez Labiano’s flamboyant camera work depicts with swooping helicopter shots, pre-drone. As Romeo and Rosie Perez’ Perdita criss-cross across this border, wreaking havoc, they tread a fine line between charismatic anti-heroes and sadistic monsters. I guess if one identifies as an anti-hero, something which the us-and-them of the border encourages, then it’s not that hard a leap to identify with Perdita and Romeo. It’s an interesting contrast with other border fictions. In McCarthy, the gringos are the good guys, crossing into a biblical world whose protean mores they grapple with. In Villeneuve’s lurid Sicario, the Mexicans are just as amoral and sadistic as Romeo and Perdita, but with none of the charm. So in a sense, de la Iglesia’s operatic tale can be seen as a vindication of those who are usually vilified, and their arbitrary vengeful abuse of two young kids is a turning of the tables. On the other hand, a film which glorifies a rapist, (or rapists, because Rosie also gets in on the act), is perhaps harder to like in this day and age, even if this might be termed a film which clearly comes from another era and the kids seem to get off on it.

In many ways Perdita Durango feels like one of those macho films with a female lead that got given budgets back in the day. Perdita is second cousin to Betty Blue or Thelma and Louise or La Femme Nikita, even Run Lola Run, eponymous avatars of a kind of kick-ass femininity which still feels a long way from feminism. 

the oxford murders (d. de la iglesia)

7pm in Madrid. The plan had been to go and see There Will be Blood, but we'd misread La Guia. The Oxford Murders, yet to come out in the UK, was proposed. Several years ago I dragged the Director to see La Comunidad on a whim, so thought it was worth a shot to see what de la Iglesia might pull off with a film set in the weird world of Oxford. The queues in the Yelmo cineplex were impressive. The Madrilenos like their Sunday night out, and the auditorium was full.

Perhaps they were there for Elijah Wood. Perhaps they'd come to support a homegrown director. Perhaps they were all dabblers in mathematics. The sheer awfulness of large swathes of the movie didn't seem to phase the audience. No one left. No one threw popcorn at the screen. Some people even seemed to laugh in the right places.

If you marry a foreign director with a distinct national culture, it can go one of two ways. Something unexpected can be revealed, throwing a new light on images, habits and textures. Or it can look like the director hasn't really got a clue what he's dealing with. The theory of marrying de la Iglesia with the baroque and peculiar world of Oxford might seem worth a punt, to anyone who's seen La Comunidad. The practice is disastrous. Histrionic conversations in the Bodleian; caricatured coppers; John Hurt dressing up as Guy Fawkes; Elijah Wood being seduced by a nurse in the squash courts; a Russian student climbing over refectory tables; these were just some of the moments that felt as truthful as a dodgy WMD dossier.

Occasionally there would be hints of the film that de la Iglesia perhaps wanted to make: the flashbacks; the demented Maths student who self-lobotomises himself. It's noticeable that the director also has a screenwriting credit, and it seems astonishing the actors were persuaded to articulate some of the clunkiest, clearly translated-from-Spanish-lines ever heard. Actors who by and large didn't seem to have much of a clue what they were doing, or even, in one or two cases, what accent they were supposed to be adopting. (There is little more distracting then spending an entire movie trying to work out where an NHS nurse is supposed to come from.)

It does seem tragic that potentially one of the greatest locations for a film, the cast room of the V&A, will now be known for featuring in The Oxford Murders (viewers around the world will, perfectly legitimately, assume that this and indeed the V&A are in Oxford), but no doubt there have been other locations too good for the movies they feature in, just like actors, or costumes, or lighting states. Cinema is a communal enterprise, and the culpa for The Oxford Murders should be shared collectively.

Back in the now-rainy streets of Madrid, the movie was but a prelude for a visit to Toni's, a tapas bar down the road which did molleja and setas and patatas bravas; home cooked food washed down with a few canas which one hopes might appear in de la Iglesia's next film, rather than the ripe ham on offer in The Oxford Murders.