Once Upon A Time In Mexico

Having singularly failed to set the world alight with his various ventures since 1996’s Desperado – itself a remake of his own no-budget El Mariachi – Texan-born, Mexican-inclined director Robert Rodriguez returns seven years later with a movie so similar it resembles yet another remake.
However, that’s not quite the case: Rodriguez describes Once Upon A Time In Mexico as a ‘third act’, its hugely brass-necked title adopted on the advice of his friend Quentin Tarantino, and like its precursors, it makes up in blood-drenched style and fuck-you spirit what it completely lacks in substance or subtlety.
Something of a Sergio Leone homage by way of Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead, Once Upon a Time is served up as a concoction not unlike a vintage Clint Eastwood-era spaghetti western washed down with mescalin and tequila, with all the director’s Peckinpah and John Woo influences very much worn on its sleeve.
Antonio Banderas returns as the guitar-slinging hero El Mariachi, who comes out of retirement in order to avenge the savage slaughter of his wife and daughter. Along the way, he becomes embroiled in a battle with an insane drug baron, an assassination attempt on the (Mexican) President, and teams up with an extremely eccentric CIA agent.
The latter is played with such edgy humour by Johnny Depp that he completely overshadows Banderas’ Mariachi and more or less renders him a supporting act: between this and Pirates Of The Caribbean, there seems to be plenty of life left in the forty-something Depp yet.
Any semblance of plot, obviously, takes a backseat to Rodriguez’ distinctive blood-obsessed directorial vision, with more than enough
explosive action set-pieces to cater for the terminally bloodthirsty – and all in all, Once Upon A Time In Mexico is an enjoyable if slightly empty experience.