Tango

The latest dance drama from Spanish writer/director Carlos Saura (Flamenco, Blood Wedding) turns the tango, the terpsichorean equivalent of sex standing up, into one belabored and boring slow dance. A Best Foreign Language Film nominee, this plodding meditation on art and artifice follows a filmmaker named Mario (Miguel Ángel Solá) as he strives to create the ultimate movie about . . . the tango. Yet the wink-wink self-reflexivity backfires when Saura, just like Mario, struggles to find a compelling narrative to justify all the heel hammering. Indeed, though the dance sequences seethe with feral sensuality, the plot's as slim as a cigarillo. In between rehearsals, mopy Mario pines for his ex-wife/star (Cecilia Narova), then, predictably, sidles up to a young dancer (Mia Maestro), an Audrey Hepburn-esque muchacha with Mafia ties.

As if to offset the dearth of intrigue, the dialogue balloons with risible pomposity. Take, for example, this morsel of pillow talk: "Imagination is a guard rail that keeps you from falling into the pit of horror." With missteps like that, this is one Tango you'd be wise to sit out. At the Avon.
-- Alicia Potter