Steven Spielberg: The Terminal

Spielberg's first film to truly address the changing American landscape after September 11, The Terminal is at once a key point in his development and one of his most instantly forgettable movies. Shot on a titanic set intended as a sort of tribute to the great comic canvases of Jacques Tati, The Terminal confines its action to the most logical of starting points when unpacking the effects of 9/11: an airport.

The first shots roll over Customs & Border Patrol setting up for the day at JFK International, cordons being set up to direct incoming travelers as dogs make a quick scan of the place. Soon, the people pour in, travelers of all different nationalities cramming into lines and handing over passports and declaration forms as they are screened by officials in booths. Then the camera pulls back to reveal that these measures are but the first step of heightened security. Above it all, more officials watch on surveillance cameras for any anomalies, the airport now looking more like a casino than a transportation hub. In a few minutes, Spielberg deftly casts a world of total monitoring, where excuses and intentions don't matter. If someone catches an error, arrest and deportation follows swiftly. In this new world, the prospect of travel seems more frightening than exciting.

Rudo y Cursi

One must wonder to what degree real life informs Carlos Cuarón's directorial debut. Long the writing partner of big brother Alfonso (the two co-wrote Soló con tu pareja and Y tu mamá también), the younger Cuarón wrote a script for his first time behind the camera about a story of intense sibling rivalry. He has undoubtedly had to weather comparisons, be they positive or negative, to his brother, and casting Y tu mamá también's Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna surely couldn't help. Unfortunately, one need not compare this story of fùtbol and its impact on two ambitious brothers from a poor Mexican village to Alfonso's oeuvre to spot weaknesses.

The brothers are Tato (Bernal) and Beto (Diego Luna). Both are locally renowned for their skills: Tato always puts points on the board and Beto is a brick wall in the goal. They see their chance out of banana picking and small town ennui when a scout's car gets a flat. Batuta watches them play and sees their skill, but he only has space for one more client, so the brothers decide who goes by a penalty shot. Beto, the older, poorer brother, asks Tato to let him block the shot, but Tato wants glory for himself.

Tato wins, thought Beto finds his way to the big leagues eventually. Beto, already embittered by his brother's "betrayal," earns the nickname "Rudo" for his abrasiveness on and off the field. Tato, a natural charmer who returns all the love the crowd gives him, is dubbed "Cursi," though Tato hates its perceived gay connotation. With his face that looks as young now as it did a decade ago, Bernal can't help but ooze charisma, while Luna looks more grizzled: we know nothing of their backgrounds, but one can instantly see a difference in the way life has treated Beto and Tato.

At this stage Cuarón shifts gears away from your typical sports movie to comment on an emotional crisis plaguing Mexico. Tato hits his stride before his brother, and he's hailed as a national hero simply for playing soccer. Batuta fulfills Tato's dream of being a singer by securing a contract for a song and video, a tacky Spanish version of Cheap Trick's "I Want You to Want Me," and he bags a gorgeous TV star (Jessica Mas). Both are symptomatic of a nation that, just like us, values fame, not talent, above all else; they each have stories of fighting their way out of poverty, but neither listens to the other as they're so consumed in the thrill of sleeping with a celebrity. He puts so much stock into his absurd music fantasy and is so distracted by the perks of fame that his game begins to slip, setting in motion the events that will ultimately strip him of that fame.

Rudo, on the other hand, cares solely for the money, and he eventually collapses like a neutron star. He shuts out the opposing team in every match, but he gambles away his money, first at the horse track and then in a makeshift high-stakes casino run by ruthless sharks. To help ease Rudo's sense of caution, these men feed him a constant supply of cocaine in order to enslave him in two ways. Back home, his wife joins a pyramid scheme and even goads him into recruiting teammates, and she just never does seem to get it when the company finds an excuse to take away her "points" just as she's on the verge of winning that completely legitimate Caribbean cruise.

Cuarón has an excellent grasp on the black comedy of his social message, but he fails to tie it back into the story. Tato and Beto suffer a series of setbacks and tragedies, yet we do not feel sorry for them because the satirical aspect of the story requires us to view them as loathsome man-children who dive headfirst into wealth and celebrity. Bernal and Luna give commanding performances, as they do, yet neither character has enough humanity to hang a hat on. Furthermore, everything concerning the futbol aspect of the story -- the rags to riches tale, a rivalry settled by one last game, and a penalty shot, no less -- is clichéd to the point of tedium; we know exactly what will happen long before the characters.

Visually, however, it must be said that Cuarón's first time in the director's chair is often impressive. He brings out the social commentary without forcing it, and he never loses track of his characters even though there is so little to track. However, Rudo y Cursi ultimately suffers for the unconnected threads of Cuarón's script, and the false emotional weight he places on characters wholly undeserving of it. He even undercuts his theme of the beauty of the simple life at the end, where the brothers return home losers, only to be given a modest form of happiness from their wealthy brother-in-law, who may or may not be a drug lord. You know, the sort of thing that happens all the time.

Y tu mamá también

Alfonso Cuarón, one of the so-called "Three Amigos" of contemporary Mexican cinema (the other two of course being his friends and collaborators Guillermo Del Toro and Alejandro González Iñárritu), is possibly the most balanced of the group: he's able to mix Iñárritu's grasp of character with Del Toro's grand scale. His Children of Men remains the greatest science fiction film of the decade, and the best since 1998's Dark City if not 1985's Brazil, and he gave us the only truly well-made Harry Potter film yet released (and it's likely to stay that way, considering David "Just cut out all that silly character nonsense" Yates is seeing it through to the end).

Y tu mamá también is not Cuarón's first film, but it's the one that put him on the map of the cinephile community and paved the way for his successes this decade. Its premise is simple but, as is the hallmark of all great films, it turns clichés on their heads and delivers a final product unlike any other. Had Cuarón been born an American, he might have taken the road trip of two adolescents on the verge of adulthood and mined it for cheap humor, as we are wont to do. Instead, he presents us with a story of lust, humor, sadness and the losses we incur when we grow up. Along the way, we see it grow into a metaphor for the class gap in Mexico.

Tenoch (Diego Luna) and Julio (Gael Garcia Bernal) bid farewell to their girlfriends, who are leaving for a summer abroad in Italy, in the opening moments of the film in the ay that young lovers do: by getting one last piece of nookie. They have their ladies swear not to bed any men in Europe, only to go skirt-chasing themselves the second the plane leaves Mexican airspace. Their efforts are unsuccessful, and soon they're trapped in the terrible vise of ennui.

The pair attend an opulent wedding -- Julio comes from an upper-middle class family, while Tenoch's father is a high-ranking politician -- and meet Luisa (Maribel Verdú), an older woman and wife to Tenoch's cousin Jano. The brash young men try to impress her with talk of a road trip to an exotic beach (a made-up location they dub la Boca del Cielo, or "Heaven's Mouth"), but she's having none of it. Later that night, however, she receives a phone call from her husband admitting his adultery, and she decides to accompany the boys.

As they set out to their imaginary destination, Julio and Tenoch attempt to one-up another in terms of pure braggadocio, each trying to seduce Luisa with tales of their sexual prowess. When they prod her for her own sexual past, she responds in more measured terms, focusing on her first love (who died in an accident) and her crumbling relationship with her husband. While the men's tales only concern the fulfillment of lust, of conquest, Luisa's reflect love, albeit not in the naïve you might expect.

When she calls her husband to bid a final farewell, she breaks down and seduces both of the boys to ease the pain. Rather than give them some sense of satisfaction -- considering how badly they were trying to win her favor -- it brings out mutual resentment and jealousy. Each boy is so thrilled at the idea of having sex with this older woman, but we see how their previous sexcapades did not truly provide any experience, as they seem utterly clueless when confronted with a woman who actually knows what good sex is. Coupled with the jealousy of watching the other man sleep with her, they drop all pretension and reveal themselves for the children they really are.

Only when Luisa threatens to leave them do they calm themselves, and she becomes the instrument of their sexual awakening. The film culminates with a moment of shared passion between the three of them that alters them forever. Too often films of this nature believe that they turn the characters' world upside-down, but Cuarón truly rips apart everything these men thought they knew about themselves, and it understandably scares them.

As they drive across the Mexican landscape, Cuarón beautifully juxtaposes the drunken, pot-smoking antics of the boys with the decaying Mexico just outside their filthy car windows. Beggars surround them at all times, yet they pay little heed to the sea of needy. When the trio stumble across a deserted, exotic beach, they pay a local fisherman to share his food and guide them around the beautiful area; then the soundtrack breaks for one of the frequent narrational asides, mentioning that, in the future, businessmen would destroy this unmarred location to erect a resort, forcing the fisherman to work for them as a janitor. The film as a whole takes places at the end of the Institutional Revolutionary Party's 71-year reign, giving the lads' journey of self-discovery a political undertone and using them as personifications of the nation's transition under Vincente Fox.

Those layers make an already fascinating narrative that much more rewarding. Y tu mamá también combines so many messages and emotions so effortlessly it's a wonder that the film manages to move at such a brisk pace. It certainly helps that Cuarón's camera floats among these characters so gracefully that, as with Scorsese's movements, you're more inclined to view it as another character than an observer.

Hilarious and sad, straightforward and layered, Y tu mamá también is one of the greatest films of the decade. What a shame that films like this cannot even face the MPAA ratings board for fear that it would be given the NC-17 kiss of death, while the trashy violence of the Saw series only rarely has any trouble getting by with an R.