Aidan Quinn has run off with a couple of billion dollars of ill-gotten money and is living in some shabby dump in Tijuana, of all places. Three agencies are out to get him and/or recover the loot.
One is a gang of bald-headed thugs, the leader with Lee Van Cleef eyes, all of whom are professional mercenaries. They simply want to get some of their client's money back, preferably with Quinn left underground. The second is a lone agent of the FBI. The third is a Mexican gangster who owes to some illegal organization as much money as Quinn stole, plus some. Everyone seems desperate to get their hands on Quinn and his pelf.
Quinn, on the other hand, is in search of a woman he loved years ago in Tijuana. She's now dead but she left their daughter behind. The daughter has emigrated to the states and is now in college.
This kind of story has a good deal of potential. For one thing, there's the cast. Aidan Quinn, whose character is fifty-one years old, looks the right age. He's gotten thicker and more frightened with the years -- and he does "fright" very well. Andy Garcia as the Godfather figure who needs to pay off a debt is older as well, no longer the handsome slick youth. He's bearded and his voice has descended into a resigned growl. Luke Goss leads the gang of thugs from the states. He's got those Lee Van Cleef eyes and he acts as if he knows precisely what he's doing. The older man who hires him is excellent too, a little reminiscent of William Hickey.
And in fact the writer/director has given the viewer a couple of refreshing surprises. Yes, there's a car chase, but it doesn't amount to much. And there's a wild shoot out between Goss's goons and the gang hired by Garcia, but there's little blood.
But here's a treat. Near the end, all three agencies after Quinn and the loot find themselves in the mercado in a Mexican stand off, so to speak. Everybody has guns pointed at everybody else, except for the quivering Quinn. The guns are cocked and ready to go. Moments of jaw-clenching tension pass. Then everybody says to hell with it, holster their guns, and let the FBI agent walk away with Quinn. How could the writer/director have let this opportunity pass? There should have been fountains of blood and brains all over the market place. Quentin Tarentino certainly couldn't have let it go by, but Frazier has, and good on him.
There are also moment of low-key but extremely human pathos. A Tijuana whore who befriends Quinn and puts him up, begs him to spend the night with her because she's horrified that she's now middle aged. Customers have grown few. She sobs at the "wrinkles." It's not the kind of thing you expect to find in a cheap thriller.
But the story is almost undone by its own excess. It's a tale about making up for all the harm you've done to yourself and to others -- about guilt and absolution, which can be found even in death. It's all spelled out in the end, especially noticeably in the dying Quinn's flowery philosophy as he sits in a beach chair. The viewer who has made it this far -- without changing channels and looking for more gore -- already knows this.
And the photography of Tijuana and environs is sublime, except that the camera wobbles all over the place far too often. Even a static high shot of the bullfighting ring -- vast and empty except for a tiny car in the center and a few fluttering birds -- wobbles. Note to Frazier: At least one viewer, chiefly me, is getting mighty tired of bald thugs and wobbling cameras. And unless Quinn has an MFA from Yale, he ought to be conducting an inner narrative in the demotic, the parlance of the common man. Ordinary language CAN be moving if it's handled properly. Look at Terry Malloy in "On The Waterfront."
One is a gang of bald-headed thugs, the leader with Lee Van Cleef eyes, all of whom are professional mercenaries. They simply want to get some of their client's money back, preferably with Quinn left underground. The second is a lone agent of the FBI. The third is a Mexican gangster who owes to some illegal organization as much money as Quinn stole, plus some. Everyone seems desperate to get their hands on Quinn and his pelf.
Quinn, on the other hand, is in search of a woman he loved years ago in Tijuana. She's now dead but she left their daughter behind. The daughter has emigrated to the states and is now in college.
This kind of story has a good deal of potential. For one thing, there's the cast. Aidan Quinn, whose character is fifty-one years old, looks the right age. He's gotten thicker and more frightened with the years -- and he does "fright" very well. Andy Garcia as the Godfather figure who needs to pay off a debt is older as well, no longer the handsome slick youth. He's bearded and his voice has descended into a resigned growl. Luke Goss leads the gang of thugs from the states. He's got those Lee Van Cleef eyes and he acts as if he knows precisely what he's doing. The older man who hires him is excellent too, a little reminiscent of William Hickey.
And in fact the writer/director has given the viewer a couple of refreshing surprises. Yes, there's a car chase, but it doesn't amount to much. And there's a wild shoot out between Goss's goons and the gang hired by Garcia, but there's little blood.
But here's a treat. Near the end, all three agencies after Quinn and the loot find themselves in the mercado in a Mexican stand off, so to speak. Everybody has guns pointed at everybody else, except for the quivering Quinn. The guns are cocked and ready to go. Moments of jaw-clenching tension pass. Then everybody says to hell with it, holster their guns, and let the FBI agent walk away with Quinn. How could the writer/director have let this opportunity pass? There should have been fountains of blood and brains all over the market place. Quentin Tarentino certainly couldn't have let it go by, but Frazier has, and good on him.
There are also moment of low-key but extremely human pathos. A Tijuana whore who befriends Quinn and puts him up, begs him to spend the night with her because she's horrified that she's now middle aged. Customers have grown few. She sobs at the "wrinkles." It's not the kind of thing you expect to find in a cheap thriller.
But the story is almost undone by its own excess. It's a tale about making up for all the harm you've done to yourself and to others -- about guilt and absolution, which can be found even in death. It's all spelled out in the end, especially noticeably in the dying Quinn's flowery philosophy as he sits in a beach chair. The viewer who has made it this far -- without changing channels and looking for more gore -- already knows this.
And the photography of Tijuana and environs is sublime, except that the camera wobbles all over the place far too often. Even a static high shot of the bullfighting ring -- vast and empty except for a tiny car in the center and a few fluttering birds -- wobbles. Note to Frazier: At least one viewer, chiefly me, is getting mighty tired of bald thugs and wobbling cameras. And unless Quinn has an MFA from Yale, he ought to be conducting an inner narrative in the demotic, the parlance of the common man. Ordinary language CAN be moving if it's handled properly. Look at Terry Malloy in "On The Waterfront."