Che: Part One, Film Review

Ernesto Che Guevara's canonical existence in the hearts, minds, and t-shirts of people ranging from the disgruntled vegan militant to the pseudo Marxist musician is not a palatable notion for everyone. While many view him as a paragon of social justice and a spokesman for the victims of capitalist oppression, you're likely to find many others that will denounce him as a mass murderer with a killer instinct as sharp as an icicle. As is the case with a debate of such polarised positions, the truth usually straddles the equator.

Thus, one of Steven Soderbergh's more urgent dilemmas would have been how to reconcile these partisan views. Should he play it straight, allowing the action to unfold as a historian may tell it; or should he strike at the tear duct and give it the salty stream treatment?

Soderbergh's vision of Guevara is that of a man torn between the initial insecurities concerning his own importance within the revolution and his unyielding passion for the betterment of the human condition. Benicio del Toro carries a quiet, almost laconic brand of intensity to Guevara's mosquito beaten frown and bayoneting gaze. Del Toro's straightforward portrayal of Guevara makes even more sense when placed in the context of Demian Bichir's rat-a-tat of verbosity as Fidel Castro. At once a ruthless patriarch and a young boy's favourite uncle, Bichir's Castro need only stand in front of a chalk smudged slate with cane in hand to draw you in further, such is the attention that his authoritative screen presence demands.

The film's core rests in the rise of the 26th July Movement pounding wearily through the Cuban jungle as they struggle to overthrow the US-backed Batista administration, whilst also flitting intermittently to an impressive recreation of 1960's New York to follow ‘Che's’ oratory standoff at the UN. For the amount of time that the film spends in the midst of the trees, Soderbergh's familiarly rapid fire editing ensures the film isn't as arduous to watch as it might have been. Furthermore, for all of the politicking and narrative thrust of 'Che: Part One', there are also flecks of warmth and texture.  The exchanges between Guevara's more extroverted comrades are particularly noteworthy, and its to the credit of the likes of Santiago Cabrera (Camilo Cienfuegos) and Unax Ugalda ('Vaquerito') that they remain memorable.

Soderbergh's vision of 'Che' is not as much a portrait of Guevara as it is an instructive account of the historical context in which Guevara played a significant part in. Soderbergh's reluctance to push Del Toro into caricature and grandstanding at the expense of narrative is to everyone's benefit, not least Del Toro's. His subtle portrayal of ‘Che's’ multiple personas goes some way to explaining how a historical figure of such stature can come to be hated and loved in equal measure. The film's gamble to sacrifice a degree of emotional impact to bring the story to the forefront is one that works, if only because 'Che: Part Two' might threaten to reveal more about the man himself.

4/5