The Dancer Upstairs
by James Snapko

Seven years in the making, John Malkovich's The Dancer Upstairs was shot in Spain, Portugal, and Ecuador during the summer of 2000. Why it took another three years to make it to wider distribution is puzzling. Adapted from his own novel by Nicholas Shakespeare, which was in turn inspired by the hunt for Peruvian Shining Path guerrilla leader Abimael Guzman, the film now seems prescient in a post 9/11 world that is more attuned to films that deal with terrorism. Yet Malkovich, in his directorial debut, has managed to make a political film without having an overt political agenda. As a result, The Dancer Upstairs has a strange "caught-in-the-middle" feeling to it. Malkovich and Shakespeare create a mood of cool detachment from the political issues depicted in the film, and this approach is problematic.

After Malkovich locates us in ambiguous locations and times such as "Latin America" and "in the recent past," we are introduced to Agustin Rejas (Javier Bardem), a well-meaning checkpoint guard on his way to a promotion within the police force. After a portentous prologue, the film shifts five years ahead, showing Rejas in his new position as lieutenant in the citizen police force. He's a political outsider in a country with a corrupt government, its grip on power threatened by a revolutionary group with a penchant for violence (they hang dead dogs from posts as a sign of their disgust with tyranny). A man named Ezequiel supposedly heads this group. He's the next communist figurehead that is hell-bent on overthrowing the current administration. In fact, there are several images that suggest the ubiquitous influence of communism--portraits of Mao Zedong, a fireworks display in the shape of a hammer and sickle, and the mention of Marx, Lenin, and Mao as being Ezequiel's mentors. But his tactics are very anarchistic and seemingly without a purpose other than to reek havoc. Perhaps out of the ashes a new government will rise? In any case, the film's sympathies are with Rejas, and his journey to find Ezequiel.

The most we come to know about Rejas's politics happens early on, when his commanding officer asks him where he stands on the issues at hand. He says he a "Gary Cooper" type, suggesting his leanings are of the quiet, conservative, and laissez-faire kind (yet Gary Cooper wasn't apolitical - he was one of the "friendly" witnesses in the anti-communist HUAC hearings on Hollywood in the 50s). Rejas also mentions at one point that he wants democracy, and it's apparent the incumbent regime is not following through on their end. Thankfully, the film does not reduce his character to a simple-minded do-gooder that will stop at nothing to capture the villains.

Indeed, one of the film's strengths is its anti-thriller tone. Malkovich lets things unfold at an even pace, allowing the audience to immerse themselves in the narrative. This helps us see that Rejas is not only adrift politically; he has other issues pulling at him. His relationship with his wife, that seems pleasant and content on the surface, is put to the test. She's a narcissist, concerned with the shape of her nose, striving to impress her tawdry wannabe high-brow friends, with an affinity for bourgeois American values. She's a trophy wife by her own doing. Then Rejas falls for his daughter's dance instructor, Yolanda (Laura Morante). Although they are kindred spirits, their relationship, like Ezequiel's terror group, has hidden motivations that reveal themselves when you least expect it.

There are no overt stylistics in Malkovich's editing or in his manner of shot selection, but he shows dedication and trust in his performers. As an actor himself, he knows the power of the reaction shot. And Bardem is able to deliver. Close-ups reveal a man who is resigned to his situation. Regret, remorse, and longing for what life could be are realized though his reactions and subtle expressions. We sympathize with Rejas solely because of Bardem's performance. He holds this film together.

Composers Alberto Iglesias and Pedro Malgheas create an evocative sound with sparse piano and strings. Much like the film's distance from its subject matter, the music creates an atmosphere of eerie detachment. The slightly muted colors and stark contrasts in Jose Luis Alcaine's cinematography add to the film's overall tone.

The film's one flaw is its presentation of the contending political forces and Rejas's relationship to them. We are never really offered an explanation of why the Ezequiel group is so violent toward the current government. The locales do suggest poverty, as you would expect in a Central American country, but the film doesn't emphasize this. Malkovich maintains a studied ambiguity, and although this has its advantages in terms of style, I'm not sure what the picture's political stance really is.

When The Dancer Upstairs finally resolves itself, there are no epiphanies or sentimental monologues. Malkovich does a nice job letting the film linger in the audiences' minds, just as Rejas's melancholy gaze lingers on his daughter's dance recital. Like him, we're unsure of the future but satisfied to know that the present is worth living for.

©2003 James Snapko
CineScene