The Matador: The Dullness of Emotional Men

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 21, 2006.

Every so often, I get suckered into watching a movie of questionable quality, and I end up wondering why I thought the film was worth pursuing in the first place. For example, the results of my Netflix algorithm recently led the site to recommend 11:14, a thriller with some degree of potential that was unfortunately lost in the film's execution. In the case of Richard Shepard's The Matador (2005), I suppose that I got sucked in by the premise of a buddy movie involving assassination, or perhaps the ads—with the requisite positive quotations from critics—pushed me over the edge. In any case, the movie proved disappointing, and unlike 11:14, it didn't even have potential.

The "buddies" of this buddy film are Julian Noble (Pierce Brosnan) and Danny Wright (Greg Kinnear). The former is a well-paid, globe-trotting assassin with no permanent address, no real friends, and a simmering suspicion that his oversexed, cloak-and-dagger lifestyle isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Danny is a mild-mannered businessman, who is trying to bounce back professionally and emotionally: in recent years, he has suffered both a layoff and, more tragically, the loss of his only child. Julian and Danny both find themselves in Mexico City—each pursuing his respective "business"—and they run into each other in a bar.

What follows is essentially a series of conversations between the men regarding work, love, and life. In one sense, Danny plays the voyeur, peeking into the dark world of the assassin's craft; we sometimes wonder whether Danny will leap into the fray and join Julian's profession (especially if his company's negotiations with a Mexican firm fall through). Yet, the movie really isn't about assassination so much as Julian's lack of roots and his deep desire for friendship — a friendship that Danny may be able to provide.

Unfortunately, The Matador suffers from its inconsistency in tone, substance, and character. On one level, it is supposed to be a "comedy," but its dialogue seems trapped in an unsophisticated vulgarity, a forced crudeness that seems targeted towards the stereotypical frat boy. The Matador's script lacks the satirical edge found in movies like Clerks, a bawdy film that nevertheless exhibits a cultural knowledge—and even appreciation—of its subject matter. The Matador's humor is neither knowledgeable nor appreciative; it's just rude.

In addition, the movie doesn't provide a clear picture of who Julian is supposed to be. Is he an international man of mystery (a role with which Pierce Brosnan has significant recent experience)? Or, is he a pathetic, washed-up loser in the throes of a mid-life crisis? Are we supposed to be impressed with Julian, find him amusing, or take pity on him? One could say "all of the above," but Brosnan doesn't pull off this multifaceted feat. Rather, we see him jumping from persona to persona without any believable transition; the movie feels more like a hastily produced compilation of character studies, rather than a coherent portrait.

Even Pierce Brosnan's physicality is somewhat confusing. On the one hand, he is conventionally attractive, so one would think that the movie would use that to boost his man-of-mystery status. On the other hand, Brosnan's shirtless scenes reveal someone who, while certainly not overweight, nevertheless shows signs of a middle-age man (he's 53) who hasn't lifted weights in a while. It's not clear whether this is part of the movie's intent of showing an assassin past his prime or whether Pierce Brosnan is unintentionally demonstrating that he's past his prime. The aesthetic confusion is compounded by Brosnan's tacky mustache, which makes him look like he should be peddling lemons in a used-car lot, rather than conducting high-priced assassinations. (All of this talk about appearance might seem shallow, but if the movie is going to cast an actor known as much for his physical attributes as for his experience in front of the camera, then it should do a better job of making him look somewhat coherent.)

Finally, the long dialogues—including a seemingly (and inexplicably) interminable scene with Julian, Danny, and the latter's wife, "Bean," in the middle of the film—strive to produce sympathy for the assassin, who is, after all, an emotional being. You see, The Matador is really about a man who hides his emotional self underneath layers of violence, coarseness, and chauvinism. The latter are merely tools by which he protects himself from asking hard questions and delving into the depths of his soul. The Matador is about emotional liberation. Men, too, can cry.

Unfortunately, emotional men have become boring. We know how we historically have fostered a culture in which men are not given adequate space to express their feelings and thus, are inhibited in their emotional development. Slowly, the Western world is facilitating men with a wider range of emotions: fathers who are more involved with their children, men who are willing to hug as a sign of friendship, etc. Yet, this cultural shift is not particularly new or interesting, and its manifestation in such venues as The Matador is odd, given the film's vulgar joshing. Like the stereotypical frat boy who ten years post-graduation has an awakening while thumbing through his latest issue of Maxim ("hmm...maybe drunken misogyny isn't such a good lifestyle choice!"), Julian's emotional shifts just seem a little too out-of-place and contrived.

While The Matador is not a horrible movie (I even laughed at a few of the jokes), it's mediocre at best. A significant percentage of the tone is unintelligently vulgar, Pierce Brosnan gives an inconsistent performance, and the theme of men "discovering" their emotional selves is simply trite. If you want to watch sappy, contrived emotions, then save your money and check out some prime-time TV.