| Review: Traffic | |
|
by Marcy
Dermansky
This has been a big year for Steven Soderbergh. First there was Erin Brockovich,
a Julia Roberts vehicle that was a commercial and critical hit. Now comes
Traffic, an earnest and ambitious look into drug trafficing and the nation's
controversial war on drugs, interweaving numerous stories and a large,
star studded cast. The film has already won Best Picture from the New York Film
Critics Circle, and, given the media hullabaloo, it is certain to win more.
As
a longtime Soderbergh fan, I expected to love Traffic. I respect all
the turns he's taken in his diverse career, appreciated the intellectual wackiness
of Schizopolis," the stylized elegance of The
Limey, even Julia Robert's audacious outfits in Eric
Brockovich. It's impossible not to respect Traffic. It's a massive
undertaking, ranging from dust covered back roads in Tijuana to the White House
to the comfortable living rooms of American suburbs. Soderbergh shot the film
himself under an assumed name, and the washed out brown of the scenes in Mexico,
the chilling blue of the slums of Cincinnati are effective. The acting is impeccable.
And yet.
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