Tony Manero is a slice of normality in an immoral world. Larrain’s abrasive follow-up to his first feature, Fuga, is a psychological drama, horror movie, and black comedy all at once. As Fuga followed the obsessions of a plagiarious music student searching for redemption, Tony Manero ostensibly trails a mentally imbalanced Travolta impersonator on the brink of infamy/fame. Larrain’s fascination with tragically flawed characters, whom attempt to steal social cache, has been unambiguous in a short career. The film was a Director’s Fortnight entry at the recent Cannes Festival and also screened on the Main Slate of the New York Film Festival.
Pablo Larrain was born in Chile in 1976, so it might seem incongruous that he takes his inspiration from Saturday Night Fever, which was released when he was only a year old. However, the gravitational pull of American culture transcends time and national boundaries. This one film helped to spread disco mania around the world for years after its initial release. American film was the first salvo in a war that left permanent capitalist occupants in the guise of music, burgers, soda and coffee. In 1977, Pinochet had been President for three years and his economic reform policies were being implemented vigorously. Inspired by the American free market doctrine of Milton Friedman, University of Chicago acolytes in the government deregulated business ventures and began to privatize national industries. The influence of international markets in Chile was bolstered by these new fiscal directives and American culture became sacrosanct. Civil liberties suffered incurably to maintain this so called “economic miracle.” Thousands of dissidents mysteriously disappeared, even more were tortured, the political parties and unions were disbanded, and free speech was curtailed. Pinochet ruled until 1990 when a democratically elected government came to power, but his shadow looms large. Chile in the late 70’s is a period rife with complex dramas. Larrain focuses on the fictive life of one misbegotten soul.
Raúl Peralta Pareidas takes his stage name and persona from Saturday Night Fever. Just like the original Tony, Raúl is a complete failure in his workaday life; he is 52, unemployed, and seemingly rootless. He is like one of the gigantic chess pieces being moved around backstage at the onset of the film—a pawn in a game he is too small to appreciate. We have no idea what he does for a living, and his emphatic claims that his only profession is dancing is dubious at best. In Raúl’s tenuous reality, he is probably supported by the illicit work of his sometimes girlfriend Cony and perhaps by Wilma, the owner of the rundown bar where he dances. Both these women are inexplicably drawn to his iron-like bravado, and Pauli, Cony’s young daughter, is infatuated as well. Raúl is an adequate performer at best, and he is painfully aware that younger men like his dance partner Goyo are covetous swains at his imaginary throne; a frantic hair dyeing sequence is testament to this fear. Nonetheless, whenever he alights upon the dance floor everything revolves around him. He comes alive for those few precious moments wherein his perversions handily meet his aspirations. During his routines, though, he is never happy but simply useful for once. Otherwise he reverts into a catatonic shell, impassive to the decrepitude which infests the country. His armor comes in cold, strident hues, unlike those tender, desultory souls around him.
Raúl’s appropriation of the iconic white suit from Saturday Night Fever is an overt homage to American ideals and culture. This is the same country that supported the 1973 military coup that facilitated Pinochet’s self-coronation. The CIA encouraged the military junta which deposed Salvador Allende and his socialist leanings. Better to have a dictator than a Marxist in power was the imprudent belief at the time. We quickly learn that Raúl abides by the vicissitudes of the open market out on the desolate streets. He takes what he needs by whatever means necessary, and murder has become the most expedient tool at his disposal. They say mimicry is a form of flattery and Raúl implicitly understands the rare opportunities a Pinochet government provides. The audience never doubts that he will build his glass tiled dance floor with fluorescent lighting. Raúl’s entrepreneurial (killer) instinct serves him well.
Alfredo Castro’s performance is simply mesmerizing. We want to look away but his otherworldly intensity keeps us pinned down in sweet agony. He utterly transforms himself into a lean, feral creature. As I am unfamiliar with his previous stage work, I can’t determine whether this high level of commitment is typical of his oeuvre. Nevertheless, in this case he was a co-writer of the screenplay as well. Castro deserves some accolades, and the film deserves a proper roll-out in the United States. The subject matter alone can entice warm bodies into seats, but the stirring performance will keep them there. Castro is supported by a cast of archetypes: the jealous girlfriend, the lustful teenager, the upstart rival and the older seductress. However predictable, they all acquit themselves admirably, but Castro dances alone on the luminescent glass of the rotten stage.
Larrain’s camera probes the mentality of the lead protagonist but knowingly refuses to provide succinct answers. A frantic handheld often follows Raúl as he runs through empty streets, moving through jump cuts awkwardly as is his wont. The de-saturated colors expertly convey the bleak world we have been stranded in. Moreover, there are moments when the camera lies unfocused in close-up for several uncomfortable seconds as the character is waking up or daydreaming. In these ellipses we get some allusion to the formless muddle of his internal life. Ultimately, the apparatus can only penetrate so far and the post-natal causes we usually glean from disturbed characters are in absentia. Larrain feels no obligation to spoon-feed us— Raúl is purely a product, not dissimilar from the film he obsesses over.
Some reviewers have referred to Raúl as psychotic, but his quandary cannot be circumscribed by such a dismissive label. He is a mirror for the Pinochet regime—a perpetual motion machine whose actions are dictated by his misplaced necessity. Ironically, he is not the aberration. In various online interviews Larrain struck upon the word “impunity” to describe his conception of the character. No one is accountable in this Chilean nightmare except where money or drugs is involved. Corrupt cops kill liberally for love of state. The military police roam the streets aimlessly enforcing a mandatory curfew. Nature has free reign as flood waters wash away government culpability. These are the end times where men pumped up with survival lust are the only patriots. They go on living, fed by the misfortune of the honest, weak, or slow. Raúl is a national hero in this upside-down world.
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