Conversely, Javier Bardem is perfect — mustache and all. He oozes with professionalism and makes it obvious that he will become a Hollywood megastar in the years to come. Likewise, Yolanda balances Bardem and manages the female lead without a hitch. In fact, the pair shares an impressionable scene in a restaurant, where they judge the characters of the wall portraits and realize that “half of the people we meet, we get wrong.” Foreshadowing anyone?
Regardless, by the time the end credits roll, you’ll have had enough “long live President Ezequiel,” enough Latin music, and enough of awkward quotes like “Should I ask him if he wants to borrow my penis?” While The Dancer Upstairs isn’t as macabre as some of its “action” sequences and as discomfited as its writing, it’s still unworthy of any celebratory fireworks. In the grand scheme of things, The Dancer Upstairs doesn’t burn as bright as a flashlight, a Roman candle, or a book of matches. Instead, it mimics the dimness of a jar of fireflies.
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