El Topo makes his way into the ring. He scrambles onto the grimy mat and hands his shirt to a random spectator. Watch it, he says, it’s the only one I have.
The ring where this lucha libre wrestling match is set is lit up, but the rest of the warehouse is shadowy, almost desolate but for the few spectators cheering – but not for El Topo. Instead, they’re hooting and hollering for the literal giant of a man he’s up against. El Topo leaps into the giant’s arms, wrapping his legs around him like a koala.
“Let’s give them a show,” he whispers to the giant. “Follow my lead.” The giant unceremoniously dumps him on the floor.
El Topo – real name Saúl Armendáriz – will eventually become Cassandro, an exótico who in the real world made history in Mexican professional wrestling. In lucha libre, with its colorful masks and theatrical, high-flying gambits, exóticos are male wrestlers who perform in drag and incorporate stereotypically feminine and gay mannerisms into their characters. They are flamboyant, they are dramatic, and they defy gender norms – and for a long while, they didn’t win.
Armendáriz became the first exótico to win a world title, and his rise to fame is chronicled in “Cassandro,” a new film from Roger Ross Williams. In this version of Armendáriz’s life, he’s played by Gael García Bernal, perhaps one of the most underrated movie stars of his ilk. Bernal has an easy, affable charm, his performances often characterized by that unnameable star quality that immediately puts you in his corner, no matter what. But even with a lead actor as inviting as Bernal, a subject as interesting as Armendáriz, and a world as gripping as that of lucha libre, Williams’s film falls flat. Cassandro’s story is told in a way that feels vague and sluggish, the film unceremoniously tossing its star on the mat every time he invites it to help him put on a show.
For his part, Bernal seems to clock into what it is that makes Armendáriz so appealing. Part of what sets Cassandro apart from his wrestling counterparts is his decision not to wear a mask. Masking, and subsequent unmasking, of characters is an important aspect of lucha libre. In the film, the decision is presented as a liberating one, a defining moment that mirrors Saúl’s choice to stop hiding in his personal life as well. Part of Bernal’s strength as an actor is his openness. He’s unguarded in his interactions and aware of his physicality that feels exceedingly natural. Even when Cassandro in the ring, his flourishes exaggerated and his expressions heightened, the almost nonchalance with which he moves is exhilarating. He’s not putting on a show – he just is the show.
But the languid way the story unfolds hinders Bernal’s energy. Matias Penachino’s hazy cinematography can be beautiful at times, but feels dulled around the edges, lacking the spark that its subject necessitates. Even María Estela Fernández’s gorgeous, glittering costumes feel dull under the murky lights, their sequins reflecting with a smudge rather than a shimmer.
When we’re not in the ring, Williams often stays on a single shot for long stretches of time. That sense of stillness, that static nature, might work as a contrast to life in the ring if the film’s action sequences weren’t as lackluster. Even montages and flashbacks where the camera has a bit more movement to it almost feel shot in a daze. Even when we’re on the move, the edges are blurring out around us. While those shots can be nice to look at in a vacuum, they don’t lend any sense of drama to the character that they linger on. He’s left to try and overcome that obstacle all by himself.
