Fighting Spirit
Nacho Libre
Directed by Jared Hess
Because Hess bathes these characters in light, he suggests that to see them in all their idiosyncrasy is to believe in their humanity. This spiritual generosity is astounding-especially in a movie that stars the rascally Jack Black from a story idea by screenwriter Mike White, who was responsible for the creepy character studies Chuck and Buck and The Good Girl. It's Hess' sensibility (he co-wrote the script with his wife Jerusha) and his benevolent eye that make Nacho Libre so appealing.
Although Black's specialty of aggressive physical comedy dovetails with Hess' slapstick humanism, a delicate, humorous approach to strangeness needs to prevail. That's what audiences responded to in Napoleon Dynamite. It was one of the few genuinely popular (unhyped) films of recent years. Still, it lost the New York Film Critics Circle's Best First Film prize to the fatuous Maria Full of Grace because critics favored secular cynicism over religious optimism. Maria was full of racist condescension while Napoleon embraced cultural difference. All those VOTE FOR PEDRO T-shirts you see teenagers wearing promote Hess' democractic spirit-winning the ultimate prize.
Nacho Libre applies that same true liberalism to the world of Lucha Libre, Mexico's highly theatrical wrestling subculture. Nacho disguises himself as a luchadore, in a handmade satiny costume and mask, to win money for the orphanage which has subsisted on a diet of gruel and corn chips donated by a local restaurant. Hess turns this adventure into the sweetest homily: Despite the corn chips gratuity, Nacho must free himself of limitations imposed by others.
When Nacho teams with a homeless man, Esqueleto (Héctor Jiménez), to win the Lucha Libre competition, he becomes infatuated with a novice nun, Sister Encarnación (Ana de la Reguera), who stirs his ego and tests his faith. This trio flips and reworks Don Quixote, yet the film's rousing theme song "Hombre Religioso" ("I am, I am/A real religious man") sets a devotional comic tone. The pastoral landscapes where Nacho and Esqueleto practice their wrestling moves recall Rossellini (The Flowers of St. Francis) and DeSica (Miracle in Milan) while the hostile, sardonic Lucha Libre confrontations evoke Buñuel (Nazarín). Hess' counterpoint of saintly and worldly experience is not new; it's just rare in American pop culture. When Sister Encarnación warns that luchadores fight for vanity and power, that they are "false idols," it comments on Hollywood's routine hero-worship. Hess and Black find something deeper.
In the hateful School of Rock, Black played a childish egotist but Nacho's sense of devotion makes a rich, funny characterization, based in genuine complexity: "My mother was a Lutheran missionary from Scandanavia, my father was a deacon from Mexico. They tried to convert each other. They got married instead, and then they died." No recent movie figure has a richer character précis. Thus, Nacho-an orphan who claims his legacy-acts from principle and obligation, uncommon virtues. In his luchadore's mask, Black suggests Brando's full-lipped self-questioning; his eyes beam from determination and inner stress. Hess recognizes these basic traits and provides a benedictory close-up that shows Nacho's saintly ache for love. This pellucid image affirms: Hess is not just one of the American Eccentrics. He's one of our best.