Cry Macho

An old man goes to Mexico in search of a boy and finds himself. And a rooster—so, you know, the usual story. And story it is here; this one is all about the tale and its telling, without much to dress things up. There are no special effects, little in the way of violence (a few rough scenes, but nothing like the city-destruction showcases that are par for movies these days), and only one body on screen who is recognizably a movie star: Clint Eastwood. He serves as lead, producer and director here, thus proving he still has plenty of life in him even this far along. Eastwood’s veteran status comes in handy with this flick’s direction; only an experienced hand would have the assurance to make such a restrained work in today’s environment. Then again, his experience also works somewhat to his disadvantage here, too. There are multiple scenes of women basically throwing themselves at Clint’s old cowboy character, as they did in movies multiple decades ago. An honest assessment would have to say that's a stretch regarding the lead's current appeal. Beyond that incongruity, the story relies upon some rather large-sized assumptions on more than a few characters’ parts—displaying either a fault in the source material, or perhaps the kind of loss of big-picture vision that can come with advancing age. Fortunately, most of the questionable stuff is overcome by that quiet, steady, confident storytelling, so the viewer ultimately experiences an absorbing if not riveting tale of broken people making their way to healing, if not wholeness once more. And kudos to the rooster, who plays his part with cocksure professionalism; hopefully he eventually escaped the broiler. If you’re in an introspective mood—and who isn’t these days?—I think this film fits in the recommended category. Take this trip; it's worth it.