Pulling off a truly dark comedy is a treacherous high-wire act, and it very well may be the hardest type of movie to sell to a mass audience.
With a few notable exceptions ('American Beauty,' 'Bad Santa'), our best dark comedies are far ahead of their time; most are ignored during their initial theatrical releases but inevitably gain rabid cult followings down the road ('Fight Club,' 'The Big Lebowski').
While some are too mean-spirited for even the most diehard misanthropes, most failed dark comedies are exceptionally timid affairs with a layer of superficial malice barely covering their gooey, sentimental centers. Despite a virtuoso and decidedly anti-Bond turn by Pierce Brosnan, Richard Shephard's 'The Matador' is a frustrating comedy that starts out good and nasty but soon enough turns soft and sticky.
Brosnan is Julian Noble, a veteran hit man (or 'facilitator of fatalities') who is beginning to lose his nerve. All the alcohol and exotic hookers in the world can't cure his loneliness, and after crippling panic attacks start to beset his once-immaculate work record, Julian develops a monstrous mid-life crisis. He meets fledgling Denver businessman Danny Wright (Greg Kinnear) in a Mexico City bar and tenuously makes the first friend of his life. Months later, after Julian has become a liability to his employers, he unexpectedly shows up on Danny's doorstep and declares he is his only friend in the world.
The first half of 'The Matador' is giddy and amoral, with Brosnan clearly reveling in the rampant sleaze: He is either killing people, plowing through hordes of prostitutes or drowning his many sorrows with margaritas and martinis.
He curtly insults a plain woman's earnest advances, creepily makes eyes at underage girls and interrupts Wright's candid recollection of his son's death with a joke about a well-endowed midget. This is the type of guy that likes his women 'less blushy-blushy' and 'more sucky-fucky,' as he so classily puts it.
In someone else's hands, Noble would be a despicable sexual predator. But Brosnan manages to locate the human behind the greasy Magnum P.I. mustache and wanton libido, successfully luring us into sympathizing with this lonely shell of a man. Shephard's writing crackles with sardonic wit at the outset, and Brosnan gives the comic performance of his career.
Kinnear's patented 'white-bread dork' shtick is amusing at first but quickly grows tiresome. His interplay with Brosnan is extremely funny while the two are in Mexico City, but once Brosnan shows up in Denver, 'The Matador' loses its steam and devolves into the boring, moralistic sitcom its lackluster trailers promised. What began as a daffy, vulgar little farce materializes into an obvious 'Whole Nine Yards' knockoff lacking laughs, pathos and, thankfully, Matthew Perry.
The second half is protracted and exasperating, complete with amateurish twists and a cop-out ending that underscore Shephard's sudden lack of balls. Although the film still looks great, thanks to some flashy photography and a flamboyant color scheme characterized by splotches of bright yellows and pinks, it continuously wanes until the end. Shephard tries to defibrillate his disappointing finale with Asia's 'Heat of the Moment' and some trippy camera work, but these come off as mere distractions.
Those who feel guilty about enjoying the film's dark pleasures may appreciate and accept Shephard's attempt to tack on a conscience, but most will find it overly safe and comically inert.
'The Matador' is worth seeing only for Brosnan's portrayal of one of the sketchiest onscreen lotharios since Billy Bob Thornton in 'Bad Santa.' Brosnan almost single-handedly saves the film, but because Shephard strives too hard to avoid offending people, the overall end result is a maddening near miss.
