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Moreover, as clearly as Apocalypto marks a technical evolution for Gibson, there are hints it may represent a moral one as well. It may be a simple film, even a simple-minded one, in terms of its structure and ideas. But this is a metaphor so abstracted as to be essentially meaningless.) What remains is Gibson's never-more-evident technical mastery and his remarkable sense of motion, both narrative and cinematic. (Yes, yes, I know it's about how great civilizations-hint, hint-rot from within rather than being conquered from outside. Gibson's primary flaws as a filmmaker-his vanity and tendency to bully-are both held in check, the first by his absence from the film, the second by its setting, a political context so distant from ours that it might as well be Middle Earth. But it is the rare epic in recent years that has a clear vision of what it wants to do and achieves it utterly. The film has its flaws: Gibson's continued promiscuity with slow-motion a jarring, deus ex machina conclusion, et cetera.
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But it is not, thankfully, an exercise in cinematic sadism like The Passion. If the thought of the occasional beheading or villain having his face chewed off by a jaguar upsets you, you may want to skip this movie. How could it? It has to keep pace with Jaguar Paw in his sprint across a leafy continent. Though many characters are killed violently, the film does not linger over them. Yet for all Gibson's sanguinary attentions, Apocalypto does not fetishize suffering. It drips, it pools, it rushes at one point it even sprays from a bashed-in skull with Pythonesque enthusiasm. It is the essential element, the alpha and omega, the primeval fluid coursing through the veins of Gibson's film. There are vanishingly few subplots or discursions (and those that exist are often dropped: The orphaned children of the village, for instance, are heartbreakingly portrayed at the beginning of the film and then essentially forgotten wouldn't they have gone back to the village and found Jaguar Paw's wife?) Yet despite its overlong, 139-minute runtime, Apocalypto goes by in a visceral rush of striking, if sometimes preposterous, imagery: the torch-wielding war party loping through the midnight jungle the dust-coated mineworkers who recall the photographs of Sebastião Salgado Jaguar Paw emerging from a pit of mudlike quicksand like an atavistic variation on Martin Sheen's jungle assassin in Apocalypse Now.Īnd blood, everywhere blood, red as lipstick, wet as a kiss. But Jaguar Paw escapes and flees homeward (the well in which he hid his family has an unfortunate tendency to flood when it rains) with a band of homicidal enforcers hot on his tail. The captives are marched to a Mayan metropolis (one of the more persuasive visions of Hell ever committed to celluloid) to be sacrificed to the gods. Those not killed are taken as slaves-including Jaguar Paw, though not before he hides his pregnant wife and toddler son in a well. Indeed, one could skip the dialogue altogether and miss very little of the story: Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood) is a member of a peaceful, Edenic tribe (as long as you're not a tapir) whose village is attacked by a raiding party that bears a suspicious resemblance to refugees from The Road Warrior. It's an experiment that works better than Gibson's earlier foray into biblical Aramaic, for, unlike Jesus and his persecuters, the protagonists of Apocalypto are men (mostly) of action rather than words. Set in the jungles of Central America, Apocalypto is a historic (or prehistoric) epic in spoken Mayan with English subtitles. A primitive fable of victimhood and vengeance, enslavement and escape, Apocalypto is a minor masterpiece of cinematic bravado. But while his latest film, Apocalypto, may not tell us much about the latter two categories, it confirms that, under the right circumstances, he is indeed a fiercely talented director. But it was still a long and lonely decade to be a Mel hater before The Passion of the Christ and the passion of the drunk-driving anti-Semite made it something approaching conventional wisdom.Īll of which is to say that I am not a person inclined to give Mel Gibson the benefit of the doubt as a director, actor, or human being. Gibson's thuggish preening was confirmed by his next film, Ransom, in which we were expected to applaud him for being the Worst Parent of All Time. Yes, the battle scenes were remarkable, even revelatory but they could hardly compensate for the vainest self-directed performance ever by someone not named "Barbra Streisand," and for the movie's vicious, gratuitous homophobia. I was tiring a bit of his smug machismo by the time he started grinding out Lethal Weapons, but it was Braveheart that really put me over the edge. In the early going, I liked him in Mad Max and in Gallipoli. I hated Mel Gibson long before hating Mel Gibson was cool.