Treasure Bound

Two weather-beaten parchments, torn from the same cartographic womb, seed a continent-wide fever: every crease of their brittle vellum exhales the perfume of doubloons. Conley’s rubber-limbed dreamer and Seymour’s dapper shark lock eyes across a dusty cartwright’s shop, each clutching half the puzzle; the camera pirouettes above them like a drunken gull, mapping greed in real time. From soot-choked Chicago switching yards to the sodium glare of a Baja quay, the rivals recruit misfit musketeers—Lloyd’s card-sharp with nicotine-stained smiles, Lynn’s pickpocket whose eyelashes smuggle secrets, Fries’s locomotive engineer who speaks only in whistle code—forming a caravan of combustion engines, skiff sails, and jitney mules. Along the route, White’s screenplay scatters booby-trapped lighthouses, semaphore love notes, and a mariachi funeral that erupts into a poker game played with saintly candles. When the trail finally funnels into a sea-cave cathedral, the treasure chest yawns open to reveal not gold but a mirrored interior: every plunderer confronted by their own warped reflection, the ultimate booty a merciless self-portrait. The film ends on a crane shot ascending through the fog, leaving the chest agape, the rivals laughing like cracked bells, and the viewer suspecting that cartography was always a Rorschach test.