The two-part film Che is a lengthy meditation on the procedure of insurrection — it is largely unconcerned with the motivations that inspire it or the consequences that follow it. Though any number of scenes could be called brilliant, the sum total suffers from director Steven Soderbergh’s refusal to allow the drama of the story to emerge from the details that comprise it. Still, anchored by the magnetic presence of Benicio Del Toro as the titular revolutionary, the film displays a sure technical hand and commendable knowledge of and respect for its subject. It qualifies as a good film, but it cannot be called great, which is frustrating considering its potential and pedigree.
Che: Part One follows Guevara’s participation in the Cuban Revolution of the late 1950s. Introduced as a young Argentine intellectual fighting injustice on the island but without his own nationalist stake in the game, Guevara hones his leadership to a blend of political fervour, harsh discipline and disarming eccentricity. The guerrilla is a fascinating counterpoint to his close friend and superior, Fidel Castro, realized in an unnerving facsimile by Demian Bichir. When the former, the more taciturn of the two and undoubtedly the purer socialist, confers with the refined but somewhat capricious figurehead, the exchanges are among the most potent of the film, despite their brevity. One longs for more such scenes in Part One, as well as an expansion of Guevara’s appearance at the United Nations in New York, which mercifully punctuates the confining jungle scenery and systematic tactical gains that dominate the movie’s runtime.
Had Che: Part Two been a departure from the first film, it would have benefited the totality. Taking Guevara out of the jungle and giving him scenes back in urban environs, or focusing on his reflections of past — and anticipation of future — resistances would have elevated the film as a character study. Instead, Che follows up the Cuban success with Guevara’s less popular second act in Bolivia. The negligible distinction between these two rebellions, except in their outcomes, renders Part Two nearly redundant. Visual cues and new supporting characters do their best to differentiate the halves, but they, and at times Guevara, are once again swallowed by the minutiae of guerrilla insurgency. Considering the availability of historical records from this period, an opportunity for a broadened perspective or an unconventional approach is wasted with the second piece. Its abrupt ending aside, the first film can nearly suffice on its own.
Che is reflective of its star in many respects — contemplative and subtly dynamic, it is an enigma that frustrates expectations. — but the movie diverges from the actor in its inability to be overtly compelling. Del Toro embodies Guevara with every fibre of his being, and he projects the charisma of the man with a singular craft. While Soderbergh’s facts are unassailable, the dramatic impact of his work is woefully undernourished in spite of his lead player. Their first collaboration, Traffic, proved that details can successfully merge with drama, a lesson sadly forgotten with this lesser epic.
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