THE BLACK MINUTES
Gulf of Mexico, end of the 70’s. A town like an oil stain, where the pitch-black plumes of the refineries are but a pale projection of society’s crawling underbelly ripped open and spilled out all over the pavement. The kind of place where corpses showing up on your evening stroll isn’t anything out of the ordinary and where a police officer can casually answer the phone with “Lieutenant Riviera? No, he died three months ago. I’m his nephew.” The man who has the misfortune of picking up the phone is Lieutenant Vincente Rangel and his tío did indeed kick the bucket while investigating a case of missing schoolgirls who invariably turn up minced, diced and chopped up. A case that now, because of the fatal phone call, befalls Rangel. He swiftly picks up the trail of a serial killer known as the “Jackal” – spoiler: no apparent link to a bleached Bruce Willis -, a trail that runs further uphill, higher up. He’s kindly invited to back off and let the file collect dust (or else!), but that just makes Rangel more eager to shake down some trees… It comes as no surprise that director Mario Muñoz couldn’t count on financial aid from the local tourist department, what with corruption, violence and betrayal being the name of the Mexican game. Ninety-five tense, black minutes soaked in the sultry, suffocating atmosphere of a very Finchian film noir, complete with languorous trumpets on the soundtrack; now that’s our idea of a good idea!