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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
If you have a thing for black-and-white musical dramas from the thirties, you might find this one charming. If you are looking for anything resembling real-world logic, you’ll probably find yourself staring at the ceiling waiting for the credits to roll. It’s light, it’s fluffy, and it definitely feels like a relic of a time when movies were mostly about swooning.
José Mojica is clearly the main event here. When he’s singing, you get why the movie exists. When he’s trying to pretend he’s a dirty, unwashed sheepherder, the illusion is… well, let’s just say he looks like he’s having a great time playing dress-up.
The plot is basically one big misunderstanding that could be solved in five minutes if anybody just talked like a normal human being. But then we wouldn’t have a movie, right? The ranch setting is actually kind of pretty, though I found myself distracted by how clean the 'sheepherder' clothes were. Like, surely there’s more dirt in the Mexican countryside than that?
Alice Harrison lands her plane, and the movie pivots hard into high-society drama. Her tap-dancing to a record player in a dusty cabin is easily the highlight. It’s such a bizarre, specific choice for a scene. It felt like the director just wanted to see if she could pull it off, and honestly? She did.
It’s not trying to change the world. It’s just a vehicle for Mojica’s voice. The ending is telegraphed about forty minutes early, but that’s fine. Sometimes you just want to watch a movie where the biggest problem is a misunderstanding about a record collection. It’s not quite as punchy as The False Trail, but it’s got enough sweetness to keep you awake. Just don’t overthink the plane fuel logistics. Seriously, don’t.