Cry Macho

Perhaps Eastwood’s filter is deteriorating, or maybe he simply doesn’t give a f**k anymore. It could also be that, in 2021, when cancel culture (damn it to hell) reigns supreme, the filmmaker’s inherent predispositions are that much more apparent. Offensive subtexts aside, Cry Macho is just clunky, clichéd filmmaking that, apart from a few wistful, elegiac moments, doesn’t do justice to the legend at the helm.

What genre is Eastwood aiming for? The film’s too ponderous and sedate to be a thriller. Shots of Eastwood by the campfire – and some clear-eyed allusions to Westerns of yore – aside, there isn’t enough lyricism here to classify the film as a retrospective. Obvious stabs at comedy fall flat. A lot of the ineptness is due to N. Richard Nash and Nick Schenk’s clunky screenplay. The verbal back-and-forth, which is supposed to form the heart of the story, sounds forced. “That’s why I stay on the streets,” Rafo says. “All the bad stuff happens at home. My mom hates me.” And don’t even get me started on Macho the rooster (“Guy wants to call his c**k Macho, it’s okay by me,” Mike deadpans).

“…clear-eyed allusions to Westerns of yore…”

The acting in Cry Macho is over-the-top through and through. Eastwood, bless his heart, seems like he’s struggling. His eyes still shine with vivacious energy, and when he sleeps under the stars or growls insults, he’s the good ol’ cowboy we all know and love. Still, for the most part, the delivery is just a little off, and the frailness, while adding to the character, renders the more romantic sequences far-fetched. Yoakam appears in several scenes and serves up ham, but he’s out-hammed by an unhinged Fernanda Urrejola and Eduardo Minett’s screechy performance.

Eastwood is a formidable filmmaker, a force of nature, whose films like Mystic River will forever remain in the pantheon of Great Cinema. Alas, Cry Macho may likewise be forever regarded as a perplexing glimpse at a different side of the man, one who’s created this macho persona and who now attempts to absolve himself, to only – pardon my crude use of the idiom – dig his own grave.