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boundary n. [from Latin confine, neuter of the adjective confinis «bordering», composed of con- and the root of finish «to delimit»]. - 1. a. Limit of a territory, of a land. b. Limit of a geographical region or a state; transition area where the identifying characteristics of a region disappear and the differentiating ones begin; c. natural, which is identified, more or less, with lines established by nature, such as coasts, mountain crests, rivers, etc.; c. political, established by convention between governments, separating two political entities through a boundary line which, when possible, is constituted by an uninhabited strip with isolating functions.
"Boundaries divide space; but they are not pure and simple barriers. They are also interfaces between the places they separate. As such, they are subject to opposing pressures and are therefore potential sources of conflicts and tensions." Zygmunt Bauman.
In 2015, Denis Villeneuve's Sicario bursts forth with all its overwhelming visual and metaphorical power as one of the greatest films of the recent era of the American frontier. And one of the most significant on the concept of borders.
The Border, the geographical, political, and legal demarcation between two nations, whose proximity balance is inherently fragile like crystals. The one between the USA (Texas in particular) and Mexico is one of the most important, delicate, and historically debated cases (also in cinema), but we Italians also know well what a border relationship is (very recent cases of controversial French incursions into Piedmont territory, more bloody and painful the border relations to the East with the former Yugoslavia). A border that ultimately transcends mere territorial questions and becomes metaphorical between Good and Evil, between DEA and Narcos, federal police and cartels. In Sicario, this latter boundary is gradually neutralized, making its real non-existence apparent.
"You should move to a small town, somewhere the rule of law still exists. You will not survive here. You are not a wolf, and this is a land of wolves now."
Three years later, Soldado is the continuation of a film that, in reality, did not need any continuation, so strong and definitive was the work of Villeneuve and Sheridan. But who would have expected to see a similar project entrusted to our very own Sollima, fresh from Gomorra and the remarkable Suburra (as well as Romanzo Criminale la serie and the cult ACAB)? Expectation and trust are high. And now the Day of the Soldado has arrived.
In the land of wolves, where the non-existence of Good has been sanctioned, the law of might is the only one ruling, and the naivety and innocence of Emily Blunt are definitively a memory. Where this is the starting point, human trafficking (does it ring a bell?) has supplanted cocaine trafficking, and the film has a devastating start in which, in the first ten minutes, deaths and terrorist explosions alternate without pause. One of the most devastating starts in recent cinema in terms of visual and sound impact.
And from here the direction of this unexpected sequel is already clear, but it will be confirmed throughout the film: where Sicario was ambiguous, subtle, psychological, with extended timing ("slow" is one of the worst and most trivial ways one can use to define a film) and allegorical with some explosions of violence, Soldado is instead direct, brutal, hyper-violent, “dirty” (and dirty, “dirty”, is indeed the exact direction declared by the protagonists themselves at the beginning of the film), political - and not only for the involvement, on multiple levels, of government and apparatuses. And in the same way, on the other hand, Sollima emphasizes how violence begets violence, and this kind of confrontational attitude is detrimental to any final purpose. The action is more present than in Villeneuve's film, showing the rightful and obvious style differences between the Franco-Canadian and the Roman Sollima, and the relevance is fundamental to the substance of the discourse. In a world where immigration, with its economic, humanitarian, and profit implications, is at the center of everything. And precisely the issue of immigration is the real substantial pivot that differentiates Soldado from Sicario, beyond the rest mentioned above. Fortunately, without any trivializations or moralizing, on the contrary.
The screenplay, still written by Taylor Sheridan, is however, similarly, less interesting and successful than those of his border trilogy, and of Sollima's direction in general, which throughout the film does not back down in the least and delivers blows one after the other, as if, at different points, he had Peckinpah clearly in mind (not that I want to unnecessarily evoke the great master, mind you). Less refined but more direct, or perhaps muscular, if you will, than Villeneuve, but not for this incapable of going beyond simple action Americanophile, also directing at least two or three truly memorable scenes, including the sign language dialogue between Del Toro and the man who welcomes him and the Cartel boss's daughter. Between the characters of Alejandro (who risks eventually taking on a Rambo-like slide) and Isabela, the aforementioned daughter of a boss kidnapped to spark a war between cartels, an unexpected emotional relationship opens. The only aspect more of a small intimacy within a work that is always and anyway black, nihilistic, and unredeemed in this world of hitmen, soldiers, sheep, and wolves. Where anyone, including white kids, can be apt for recruitment, for the test, for the corruption of the soul in the paths of money, trafficking, and death.
If Sicario had the feel of a thriller, Soldado is in fact, in all respects, a war film, in which Sollima, at full throttle and with a free hand (and freed from any television reminiscence, still present in Suburra), signs his best work, albeit imperfect, and in his English language debut (with a bit of Spanish, of course...) proves to be a filmmaker of race and character and fully at ease even outside national (again...) borders. Leaving hope that in the coming years he can confirm himself at these excellent levels or even improve, signing increasingly personal films. The two protagonists Brolin and Del Toro (whose aging marks, becoming more evident on the face, further accentuate his already great charisma) flawlessly resume their respective roles, and the seventeen-year-old Isabela Moner is truly excellent.
Soldado is a high-level entertainment film, whose package is impeccable: the cinematography still a feast for the senses, almost as much as Deakins' stratospheric one (for me one of the most beautiful recent ones, along with his work on Blade Runner 2049 and those by the multi-awarded rival Lubezki), the main theme, taken from the first chapter, by the late Jóhann Jóhannsson, to whom the film is dedicated, relentlessly hammers at every important moment to underline and accentuate the suspense. Which, although not reaching the peaks of its predecessor, I appreciated greatly and which may not be the last of the saga, perhaps forming a trilogy, judging at least by its open ending. But this is just a personal speculation.
Meanwhile, it is definitely worth enjoying this Day of the Soldado.
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