Tony Manero
May 13th 2010 00:46
“There’s murder on the dance floor.” But don’t even think about Sophie Ellis Bexter’s whiny glam-pop song, this is sleazy psychopathic competition, Chilean low-life style. One dangerous man determined to be the best disco impersonator in town, and if that means he’s gotta kill a few people along the way then so be it. Sounds like a dark and mischievous comedy, but no, Tony Manero (2008) is deadly serious, and all the more disturbing and bizarre for it.
Alfredo Castro plays Raúl Peralta, a shabby fifty-two-year-old living in Santiago, governed by the dictatorship of terrorist Augusto Pinochet. It’s 1978. Saturday Night Fever's brand of disco is sweeping the popular world of culture. Peralta is keen, but not just overly enthusiastic, he’s obsessed. He wants to be John Travolta’s free-wheeling, chauvinistic character Tony Manero, and he wants the rest of Santiago, Chile, maybe the world, to know.
On the outside the militia patrols the rubbish-strewn, ransacked streets looking for the slightest hint of anti-authoritarianism. It’s a terrifying political scenario that keeps the country in a lockdown. For Peralta, and a clutch of ragtag colleagues, the escapism is through dance, rehearsing a Night Fever routine, staged at the local cantina. Wilma (Elsa Poblete) runs the place. She’s around the same age as Raúl, and adores him, but, like everyone else, she’s kidding herself. Younger Cony (Amparo Noguera) is lovers (well, thereabouts, since he can’t seem to get an erection) with Raúl, but he treats her like shit. In fact, it isn’t long before he’s making moves on her adult daughter Pauli (Paola Lattus). There’s an atmosphere that’s desperately incestuous.
The young man in the pseudo-troupe Goyo (Hector Morales), is involved in anti-Pinochet activities, but is passionate about competing in the tacky “Tony Manero of Chile” television talent contest for the same prize Raúl is after. There are a couple of weeks before the TV show airs the “Tony Manero” dance-off (“Chuck Norris” is first), and in this time Peralta goes off the rails. He steals an elderly woman’s television set, but not before he savagely bludgeons her with his own bare fist.
He chases after a man with a four-by-two whom he spots making a street deal, only to narrowly avoid being shot by plain-clothes police who intercept. He rummages through the dead man’s clothes after the police have dumped the body down an embankment and uses the stolen watch to bargain for glass bricks so he can replicate the famous disco dance floor from his favourite movie at the cantina (where he’d earlier stomped the floor into splinters in a frustrated rage), and he uses broken shards of mirror stuck to a hanging basketball to add further authenticity to the stage.
Raúl is absolutely slutted when the local cinema replaces the year-long screening of Saturday Night Fever with Grease (the box office woman lures him in with the promise of more Travolta dancing). It’s a slap in the mug, and Raúl acts ferociously, pulverising the projectionist’s face. Later, when he learns that Goyo has acquired the same Tony Manero white suit ready for the TV contest, rather than blatantly murdering his opponent, he does the next worst thing; he defecates on the suit and smears his shit all over it.
Yup, Raúl Peralta is a piece of work; he makes Travolta’s Manero appear like a true gentleman. Director Pablo Larrain has set out to make his lead character act as a metaphor for the corrupt Pinochet regime, a realm of morally-bankrupt, lost souls captivated by the allure of the American Dream, whilst the trappings of the political situation hangs like a noose around their heads. It is the duplicity of everyone that spells disaster, yet in a “perfect” irony Peralta slips through the net, and the movie finishes in ghastly serial descent.
Tony Manero is crudely honest, beguiling in its grey moral realm, compelling like a horror car crash, but ultimately leaves you with a dreadfully bitter taste in the mouth. The hand-held camera-work and acting styles captures a rawness that makes the movie feel like a documentary. Raúl Peralta is one of the most obnoxious, heinous characters ever to command a movie. He revolts, not as a revolutionary, but as a guttersnipe strutting to a squalid throbbing beat. After watching Tony Manero, it’s best to take a shower. But even so, the movie’s strange film of sweat will cling to your sensibilities. An acquired taste, like cold sweetbreads warmed up and downed with cheap rum and a hangover.
Here's the trailer (sorry no subtitled one available, but there's only a few lines in Spanish):
Alfredo Castro plays Raúl Peralta, a shabby fifty-two-year-old living in Santiago, governed by the dictatorship of terrorist Augusto Pinochet. It’s 1978. Saturday Night Fever's brand of disco is sweeping the popular world of culture. Peralta is keen, but not just overly enthusiastic, he’s obsessed. He wants to be John Travolta’s free-wheeling, chauvinistic character Tony Manero, and he wants the rest of Santiago, Chile, maybe the world, to know.
On the outside the militia patrols the rubbish-strewn, ransacked streets looking for the slightest hint of anti-authoritarianism. It’s a terrifying political scenario that keeps the country in a lockdown. For Peralta, and a clutch of ragtag colleagues, the escapism is through dance, rehearsing a Night Fever routine, staged at the local cantina. Wilma (Elsa Poblete) runs the place. She’s around the same age as Raúl, and adores him, but, like everyone else, she’s kidding herself. Younger Cony (Amparo Noguera) is lovers (well, thereabouts, since he can’t seem to get an erection) with Raúl, but he treats her like shit. In fact, it isn’t long before he’s making moves on her adult daughter Pauli (Paola Lattus). There’s an atmosphere that’s desperately incestuous.
The young man in the pseudo-troupe Goyo (Hector Morales), is involved in anti-Pinochet activities, but is passionate about competing in the tacky “Tony Manero of Chile” television talent contest for the same prize Raúl is after. There are a couple of weeks before the TV show airs the “Tony Manero” dance-off (“Chuck Norris” is first), and in this time Peralta goes off the rails. He steals an elderly woman’s television set, but not before he savagely bludgeons her with his own bare fist.
He chases after a man with a four-by-two whom he spots making a street deal, only to narrowly avoid being shot by plain-clothes police who intercept. He rummages through the dead man’s clothes after the police have dumped the body down an embankment and uses the stolen watch to bargain for glass bricks so he can replicate the famous disco dance floor from his favourite movie at the cantina (where he’d earlier stomped the floor into splinters in a frustrated rage), and he uses broken shards of mirror stuck to a hanging basketball to add further authenticity to the stage.
Raúl is absolutely slutted when the local cinema replaces the year-long screening of Saturday Night Fever with Grease (the box office woman lures him in with the promise of more Travolta dancing). It’s a slap in the mug, and Raúl acts ferociously, pulverising the projectionist’s face. Later, when he learns that Goyo has acquired the same Tony Manero white suit ready for the TV contest, rather than blatantly murdering his opponent, he does the next worst thing; he defecates on the suit and smears his shit all over it.
Yup, Raúl Peralta is a piece of work; he makes Travolta’s Manero appear like a true gentleman. Director Pablo Larrain has set out to make his lead character act as a metaphor for the corrupt Pinochet regime, a realm of morally-bankrupt, lost souls captivated by the allure of the American Dream, whilst the trappings of the political situation hangs like a noose around their heads. It is the duplicity of everyone that spells disaster, yet in a “perfect” irony Peralta slips through the net, and the movie finishes in ghastly serial descent.
Tony Manero is crudely honest, beguiling in its grey moral realm, compelling like a horror car crash, but ultimately leaves you with a dreadfully bitter taste in the mouth. The hand-held camera-work and acting styles captures a rawness that makes the movie feel like a documentary. Raúl Peralta is one of the most obnoxious, heinous characters ever to command a movie. He revolts, not as a revolutionary, but as a guttersnipe strutting to a squalid throbbing beat. After watching Tony Manero, it’s best to take a shower. But even so, the movie’s strange film of sweat will cling to your sensibilities. An acquired taste, like cold sweetbreads warmed up and downed with cheap rum and a hangover.
Here's the trailer (sorry no subtitled one available, but there's only a few lines in Spanish):
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Comment by JohnDoe
Film & TV on DVD
Hadn't heard of this one, but then it seems like an odd mix.
Comment by David O'Connell
20/20 Filmsight
Screen Fanatic
Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile
Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile
Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile
Comment by Carnal
Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile