Movie Pick

No Dynamite Here

Nacho Libre

originally published June 21, 2006

Nacho Libre is Jared Hess’ (Napoleon Dynamite) second directorial outing and certainly displays, at times, the deliberate pacing, endearingly skewed creation-of-universe-through-quickcut-oddball-detail, and juxtaposition of attic-artifact characters with a sprawling sense of landscape (in this case the desolate, captivating Mexican countryside and rectory in which it was filmed and mesmerizingly weird-looking extras) that garnered him a grand Jury prize at Sundance two years ago. Unfortunately, these are too often overwhelmed by the gnawing, face-twisting, maelstrom of organic debris known as Jack Black.

He of the D plays the titular Nacho, a guero (that would be “white boy") monk consigned to doling out black bean gruel at a rural orphanage who dons the stretchy-pants of the luchador to earn a bit of respect. His homely thief of a sidekick, Esqueleto (played by Héctor Jiménez in his first English-language role), comes closest to approximating the fascinatingly listless pop-art deadpan Hess coaxed from Dynamite’s motley crew. His blood-curdling, remarkably feminine yelps of pain dot the film with reliable guffaws. But the dancing monkey mugging and manboy prance for which Black is known occupy the lion’s share of shots.

In the process, there’s also a forbidden love story, a sports film complete with appropriately devious montage, buddy comedy, coming-of-age revelation, and even hints of the true backstory of monk Fray Tormenta/ Father Sergio who fought to raise money for his orphanage, though neither Black nor the script conjure enough feeling to make that last convincing. There are also poop jokes, crotch jokes, midgets, consumption of repugnant substances, and all of the other hallmarks of gross-out slapstick summer comedy. Lots of poop jokes. Like five in the first 15 minutes.

There are laughs, certainly, but also overlong stretches without them. Those who take pleasure in patented Jack Black schtick will find moments in which he is at the top of his game, but plenty in which it seems a more seasoned directorial hand might have helped him stay there. Nacho’s pleading insistence that he does know a “buttload of crap about the gospel” represents a near-perfect marriage of honest underdog bravado and winking satire, but feels rather too much as if is destined for midday TNT.

Somewhere in this chupacabra’s nest of hand-hewn Spandex and half-refried ideas are at least five movies that might’ve each made for a fine hour and a half. Stitched together as they are, however, they seem to be nipping at each other’s haunches more often than delivering the pile-driver of hilarity to the face.

Brandon Waddell

Brandon Waddell