Apocalypto
Don’t believe anything Mel Gibson says about “Apocalypto.” When he claims it’s an exploration of why civilizations end, he’s either being dishonest or delusional — probably a bit of both. This is the director who, in “Braveheart,” turned the freakish ability to endure torture into a triumphant affirmation of a nation’s character. As for “The Passion of the Christ,” well, how could anything Jesus said or did be more important than the way he was torn, stretched and bludgeoned?
It’s not a shock, then, that Gibson’s vague and simplistic ideas about why the Mayans were susceptible to annihilation by the invading Spanish are enveloped by a grim and relentlessly violent action movie. For Gibson, everything is a pretext for throwing his id onto the screen — his insatiable, juvenile fascination with the variety of bloody terrors men visit upon each other. “Apocalypto,” then, is deeply personal, even if Gibson won’t admit exactly why that is. Mel loves blood, and in this movie he wallows in it, and well, I kinda dig that. The first hour-plus is a gratuitous slog, but then, suddenly, Gibson sets anthropology aside and, with brutish lyricism, orchestrates a long and thrilling chase sequence. He celebrates closeness to nature. As a lithe Mayan hunter named Jaguar Paw flees from the bloodthirsty denizens of an urban Gomorrah, he relies on the jungle’s bountiful resources to turn the odds in his favor. “Apocalypto” may starve for intellect, but it’s got ferocious energy to spare.
LISTEN: Apocalypto