SITE TOOLS
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Pinero,
2001, 103 minutes, Rated R
By Carla Robinson
There's
a new word for incomprehensible, it's "ambitious." These
days, it's bandied about whenever a so-called art film comes on the
scene, particularly one that thumbs its nose at us viewers through its
own self-involved, convoluted nature. Rather than admitting that it's
not that we don't get it, but, rather, there's nothing to be gotten,
we label the work ambitious and walk away, scratching our heads when
no one is looking. Well, let me be the first to burst out of the
closet: Pinero is not an ambitious film. It's a mess.
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Worse. It's a disservice
to those seeking more intimate knowledge of the maelstrom of a man
known as Miguel Pinero. Pinero was one of the founding members of The
Nuyorican Poets Café and the writer of the Tony-nominated play about
the harsh realities of prison life, Short Eyes (1974). For every
accomplished act of model American citizenship he committed, Pinero
took care to throw in a few machinations and power plays on the
seedier side of the street. The result was a short life (Pinero died
of liver disease at 41 in 1988) as an acclaimed writer and performer,
but also as a drug addict, hustler, and jailbird. Pinero felt he had
to "keep doing bad to keep the writing good." His life was
further complicated by his bisexuality and his possible molestation as
a child. While not shying away from them, the film fails to connect
these experiences with Pinero's artistic obsessions.
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Another problem is the casting of
Benjamin Bratt, which imparts a dual, contradictory message. This is
an independent, arty biopic that supposes those who come to see it
have an awareness of its subject. It doesn't seem intended for a general
audience. Yet, there's Mr. Bratt, fresh from his break-up with the
queen of general audiences, Julia Roberts, and best known for his
former role as the hunky Latin-esque detective on Law & Order.
Pinero's writer/director, Leon Ichaso, is trying to have it too many
ways. Especially considering that his film steps all over itself to be
the anti-biographical biography, to fly in the face of narrative,
Hollywood-style filmmaking.
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But the big question is does Bratt get
the job done. Yes and no. He gives a performance that is credible and,
at times, stirring. Yet, rather than completely embodying Miguel
Pinero, Bratt's performance is more akin to Benjamin Bratt trying very
hard not to be Benjamin Bratt. However, as the wise ones say, any port
in a storm. In this helter-skelter maze, Bratt's portrayal emerges as
the sole unifying element and while he rarely hits the nuances of
New-York-Lower-East-Side-Puerto-Ricanism, he at least gives us
something consistent to watch.
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Who can figure what makes people like
Miguel Pinero tick? Who can say why monsters kill and beauties love
and why there's a little bit of both in all of us? No one. Perhaps
this is why the film gives up on itself and instead of trying to
proffer insight, settles for the trickery of a scrambled story played
out in mixed media.
M
March 2002
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