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"The Mask of Zorro"
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High Z ANTONIO BANDERAS AND CATHERINE ZETA-JONES BRING CLASSIC SWASHBUCKLING
ADVENTURE BACK TO THE SCREEN IN "THE MASK OF ZORRO."
BY CHARLES TAYLOR | "The Mask of Zorro" is one of the most glorious and rousing adventure movies Hollywood has ever produced. Every detail, down to the glint of light that runs across Zorro's blade when he draws it to face a foe, seems to have been designed to give the audience the maximum possible pleasure. The movie is full of romance and color, bravery and wit, breathless stunts and even more breathless escapes. Zorro has been around since 1919, when pulp writer Johnston McCulley invented him for a five-part magazine serial. The first of many movies, "The Mark of Zorro," starring Douglas Fairbanks as the masked avenger, appeared the following year. I can't imagine that any version of the Zorro tale has ever been as stirring as the new one. "The Mask of Zorro" invests this pop staple with something approaching the emotional pull of folk legend. Don Diego de la Vega, a Spanish nobleman disguised as Zorro, defends the poor of Mexico against the greed and corruption of his fellow dons. The filmmakers -- director Martin Campbell and screenwriters John Eskow and the team of Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio -- deepen this character's irresistible Robin Hood appeal by making their hero a haunted, tragic figure. When the movie opens, it's 1821 and Spain has recalled its last governor of Mexico, evil Don Montero (Stuart Wilson). He plans a dastardly parting gesture -- the execution of three innocent men selected at random. The mysterious Zorro foils the execution, and the feats of acrobatic chivalry on display have you laughing and cheering almost before the movie's begun. He seems to be everywhere at once -- dispatching Spanish soldiers, scaling walls, using his whip as a vine to swing from building to building. He's a hero who delights in performing. When Zorro rears up on his black stallion, Tornado, and waves goodbye to the adoring crowd, he's taking his bow. We've barely settled down after that sequence before the movie plunges us into loss. Montero discovers Zorro's true identity and, showing up at the home of Don Diego (Anthony Hopkins), initiates a showdown that ends in tragedy. Don Diego is sent to prison and Montero sets sail for Spain, taking Don Diego's infant daughter, Elena, with him. Twenty years later, Montero has returned to Mexico with the now-grown Elena (Catherine Zeta-Jones), who believes Montero is her father. Don Diego is out of prison but in hiding. In a cafe he meets a young bandit, Alejandro (Antonio Banderas), intent on avenging his brother's death by killing the cavalry officer (Matthew Letscher) responsible. Don Diego offers to teach Alejandro how he can exact his revenge. Alejandro soon realizes that this man is his childhood hero, and he begins training not just for revenge, but to take over the role of Zorro. In keeping with the spirit of swashbucklers, that means learning to have fun. Don Diego instructs Alejandro to wear Zorro's mask to hide his anger, but the smile on Alejandro's face when he's in his black costume suggests a rakish masquerade reveler. He even learns to playact without a mask, posing as a Spanish nobleman to get close to Montero and, in the process, falling for Elena. Much of the pleasure of the old swashbucklers came from the lightly self-mocking attitude they took toward their heroes' derring-do. Douglas Fairbanks' preposterously acrobatic carriage and Errol Flynn's slightly leering smile brought their pictures a sense of irony that defused the danger their characters faced. Maybe because of that, they seemed even more heroic. But they were no Dudley Do-Rights. Fairbanks, Flynn and the leading men in later swashbucklers -- like Stewart Granger in "Scaramouche" and Burt Lancaster in the heavenly parody "The Crimson Pirate" -- exuded an exuberant lustiness, a sense of swordplay as foreplay. Campbell, whose approach has often been far too grim and solemn for his pop material, gets exactly the right mixture of seriousness, frivolity and sexiness. (Even Tornado, with his long curly mane, is sexy.) He has taken the Fairbanks and Flynn credo to heart. His Zorros never walk when they can run, never climb when they can leap, never fight one foe when, with a sword in each hand, they can duel with two villains simultaneously. The action sequences are all beautifully staged, and some of the stunts are real doozies -- like Zorro, standing astride two galloping horses, leaping over a low-hanging branch in his path and landing upright on the two steeds. Campbell doesn't rely on pointless quick cutting: Nothing could be quicker than some of the lightning fast moves we see in the sword fights, each of which has been given its own distinctive emotional flavor. And Campbell doesn't go to sleep during the non-action scenes. He keeps building our investment in the characters. For all the acclaim Hopkins has won he's never shown the sheer joy in performing that he does here. The beaming smile he flashes at the crowd in the opening sequence as he slashes his way through a brace of Spanish soldiers is very becoming. Hopkins plays the entire movie with the relaxed and confident panache of an old pro. There isn't a trace of the masochism that sometimes makes him seem heavy-spirited. There's a lovely meeting between Elena and Don Diego, whom she believes is Alejandro's old family retainer. The aging Don doesn't reveal that the lost daughter he speaks of so longingly is her, and Hopkins' gallant reticence is all the more touching for what he holds back. It's a sly, classy performance, and it allows Banderas to do some expert clowning. After too many movies that tried to sell him as a smoldering Latin lover, "The Mask of Zorro" restores the element that made Banderas so sexy when he first appeared in Pedro Almodóvar's films: his sense of humor. He has a good, knockabout time playing the young hothead given license, by the role of Zorro, to duel and fight and jump around. But Don Diego represents the sophistication and control Alejandro must achieve, and the pleasure of Banderas' performance lies in seeing Alejandro take on some gravity. His best moment comes when the cavalry officer who killed his brother tries to trick him into revealing his identity by presenting him with a grisly surprise. Alejandro turns this supreme insult into a tribute to his brother that is also a promise of revenge. You can't separate Banderas' dignity from his daring in this scene, which achieves the level of myth. There's a third adventurer here as well: Zeta-Jones, the stunningly beautiful Welsh actress who plays Elena. Elena is no damsel in distress; she's been written as impassioned and brave -- her true father's daughter. Elena and Alejandro are a real love match, and their courtship, which proceeds from a torrid Flamenco to a witty fencing duel, matches the rest of the film's lusty high spirits. Dark eyed and with full, high cheekbones, Zeta-Jones is fiery enough to spar with Banderas as an equal, ripe and yielding enough to bring a depth of feeling to her scenes with Hopkins.
There couldn't be a better time for a great swashbuckler. Action and
adventure movies have become disjointed special effects shows -- rapidly
edited hodgepodges of explosions and shooting and screeching car chases.
Audiences don't appear to mind that the stories often make no sense or that
the movies are so visually choppy you often can't tell what's going on. I
think that's because, even on the level of fantasy, audiences no longer
believe in movies. They turn up to see the catch phrases and set pieces
that -- thanks to saturation TV commercials and moviehouse trailers -- they
know by heart before they've even seen the movie. "The Mask of Zorro" is
enthralling in ways we don't expect movies to be anymore. It's an act of
faith in the mainstream movie audience's willingness to be swept up in
grand adventure and dashing characters, in the almost embarrassingly
bracing conceit of a brave protector of the innocent. With more wit, style
and sexiness than the action blockbusters have shown, "The Mask of Zorro"
wipes away their crassness and cynicism. It makes the very idea of movie
heroes seem possible again.
Charles Taylor is a regular contributor to Salon. |
