One Law for All

A prairie drifter, half-coyote and half-dream, slips across a border that exists only on paper, trading the dust of a nameless pueblo for the neon promise of an American boomtown where the sidewalks still smell of wet paint and Manifest Destiny. He carries no past except a bullet crease in his hatband and a photograph of a señorita whose eyes have been scratched out by cigarettes. The film tracks this man—called only ‘El Águila’ in whispers—as he is rechristened ‘Jim’ by a grinning clerk who can’t pronounce gutturals, issued a social-security card hot off the press, and marched into a citizenship class where the chalkboard reads “Assimilation = Salvation.” Meanwhile, a chorus of Anglo archetypes—cowboy stuntman, flapper stenographer, corrupt sheriff, itinerant preacher—circle him like hawks, each eager to carve off a slice of his foreign hide for their own tapestry of self-interest. Over the course of one lunar cycle he is hired, fired, robbed, rebranded, shot at, elected deputy, and finally marched into a makeshift courtroom cobbled together in a silent-movie barn, where the verdict on his Americanness is delivered by a jury of popcorn-munching drifters who have never heard their own hearts pronounced alien. The climax is not a shoot-out but a slow dolly-in on his newly issued passport as it catches the sunrise, the embossed eagle glistening like fresh blood while the soundtrack—sparse, metallic—drops out entirely, leaving only the echo of boots walking away from everything he once was.