Pinero, 2001, 103 minutes, Rated R
By Carla Robinson
There’s a new word for incomprehensible, it’s “ambitious.” These days, it’s bandied about whenever a so-called art film comes on the scene, particularly one that thumbs its nose at us viewers through its own self-involved, convoluted nature. Rather than admitting that it’s not that we don’t get it, but, rather, there’s nothing to be gotten, we label the work ambitious and walk away, scratching our heads when no one is looking. Well, let me be the first to burst out of the closet: Pinero is not an ambitious film. It’s a mess.
Worse. It’s a disservice to those seeking more intimate knowledge of the maelstrom of a man known as Miguel Pinero. Pinero was one of the founding members of The Nuyorican Poets Café and the writer of the Tony-nominated play about the harsh realities of prison life, Short Eyes (1974). For every accomplished act of model American citizenship he committed, Pinero took care to throw in a few machinations and power plays on the seedier side of the street. The result was a short life (Pinero died of liver disease at 41 in 1988) as an acclaimed writer and performer, but also as a drug addict, hustler, and jailbird. Pinero felt he had to “keep doing bad to keep the writing good.” His life was further complicated by his bisexuality and his possible molestation as a child. While not shying away from them, the film fails to connect these experiences with Pinero’s artistic obsessions.
Another problem is the casting of Benjamin Bratt, which imparts a dual, contradictory message. This is an independent, arty biopic that supposes those who come to see it have an awareness of its subject. It doesn’t seem intended for a general audience. Yet, there’s Mr. Bratt, fresh from his break-up with the queen of general audiences, Julia Roberts, and best known for his former role as the hunky Latin-esque detective on Law & Order. Pinero’s writer/director, Leon Ichaso, is trying to have it too many ways. Especially considering that his film steps all over itself to be the anti-biographical biography, to fly in the face of narrative, Hollywood-style filmmaking.
But the big question is does Bratt get the job done. Yes and no. He gives a performance that is credible and, at times, stirring. Yet, rather than completely embodying Miguel Pinero, Bratt’s performance is more akin to Benjamin Bratt trying very hard not to be Benjamin Bratt. However, as the wise ones say, any port in a storm. In this helter-skelter maze, Bratt’s portrayal emerges as the sole unifying element and while he rarely hits the nuances of New-York-Lower-East-Side-Puerto-Ricanism, he at least gives us something consistent to watch.
Who can figure what makes people like Miguel Pinero tick? Who can say why monsters kill and beauties love and why there’s a little bit of both in all of us? No one. Perhaps this is why the film gives up on itself and instead of trying to proffer insight, settles for the trickery of a scrambled story played out in mixed media. M
March 2002
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