Steven Soderbergh's Traffic provides a compelling and comprehensive insight into drug trafficking and the fight against it, interlacing sub-plots which present disparate individuals whose destinies all nonetheless depend upon the narcotics industry. Chief amongst these are Michael Douglas's newly appointed US drugs tsar, who takes up his post unaware of his own daughter's escalating habit, and the drugs baron's wife, played by Catherine Zeta Jones, pregnant on screen as off it, who, despite her pregnancy and sudden discovery of her husband's illegitimate businesses, steps into the breach when he is arrested to save him from jail and his business from failure.
Both Douglas and Jones give able performances, but the strengths of this film lie far more in Soderbergh's cinematography than in the acting of his cast. Indeed, if it were not for the presence of this pair it would be easy to forget that this is a Hollywood movie. Soderbergh's camera work masterfully captures and amplifies the character of each location. Our view of Mexico is bathed in the light of a dust-filtered sunset, gritty and contrasty, and is set against the sharper focus and blue-grey coldness of the American settings. The triumph of this approach is that, rather than appearing as a mere stylised colour-coding, it distils the sense of truthfulness and immediacy that the opening of the film exudes, and, in combination with the jerkiness and disorientation of Soderbergh's hand held camera, which seems always to be stumbling across the action as it unfolds, gives real poignancy to our involvement with the characters without intrusion or judgement.
Dusty Mexico is home to drug traffickers and entrepreneurial policemen, and is pervaded by a sense of vitality and dynamism, whereas America's hapless law-enforcers struggle under a leadership laden with political babble but bereft of ideas. Indeed, so relentless is the presentation of the ineptitudes of America's war on drugs that Traffic stutters through a middle section which flirts with a low comedy which does not stand comparison with the dark observational humour of the film's opening. In particular, Don Cheadle and Luis Guzman as DEA agents struggle to shake of their Boogie Nights tragi-comic personae. This malaise, however, is briskly shaken off as the narrative regains momentum, and Traffic appears to be careering towards a blackly inevitable conclusion in which all scores are settled as the motive forces of profit, survival and half-loyalty assert themselves.
This dénouement, though, does not materialise, for the protagonists seize their fates away from this destiny and bring about an ending which is both more and less satisfying than the one that might have been expected. It is less satisfying in that it undermines the strengths of the film as a whole by introducing a sense of didacticism and improbability which it is to Soderbergh's great credit are elsewhere absent. The didactic elements of the ending also undermine the social message of the film, if one is intended, by subjugating the sense that all involved are victims of an impersonal system to the need to manipulate our sympathies so that the film can succeed as a thriller.
The credit side of this balance sheet is, though, substantial. The ending allows characters that might otherwise have been little more than place-holders to flourish, and we are treated to some memorable set-pieces along the way, most notably a scene in which two assassins stake out the same ground. If Traffic ultimately sacrifices honesty for entertainment then few will complain. It is a gripping and thought provoking study on a theme of importance that will live long in the memory as a thriller, as a documentary and as a piece of atmosphere, immediacy and stylistic excellence.
Both Douglas and Jones give able performances, but the strengths of this film lie far more in Soderbergh's cinematography than in the acting of his cast. Indeed, if it were not for the presence of this pair it would be easy to forget that this is a Hollywood movie. Soderbergh's camera work masterfully captures and amplifies the character of each location. Our view of Mexico is bathed in the light of a dust-filtered sunset, gritty and contrasty, and is set against the sharper focus and blue-grey coldness of the American settings. The triumph of this approach is that, rather than appearing as a mere stylised colour-coding, it distils the sense of truthfulness and immediacy that the opening of the film exudes, and, in combination with the jerkiness and disorientation of Soderbergh's hand held camera, which seems always to be stumbling across the action as it unfolds, gives real poignancy to our involvement with the characters without intrusion or judgement.
Dusty Mexico is home to drug traffickers and entrepreneurial policemen, and is pervaded by a sense of vitality and dynamism, whereas America's hapless law-enforcers struggle under a leadership laden with political babble but bereft of ideas. Indeed, so relentless is the presentation of the ineptitudes of America's war on drugs that Traffic stutters through a middle section which flirts with a low comedy which does not stand comparison with the dark observational humour of the film's opening. In particular, Don Cheadle and Luis Guzman as DEA agents struggle to shake of their Boogie Nights tragi-comic personae. This malaise, however, is briskly shaken off as the narrative regains momentum, and Traffic appears to be careering towards a blackly inevitable conclusion in which all scores are settled as the motive forces of profit, survival and half-loyalty assert themselves.
This dénouement, though, does not materialise, for the protagonists seize their fates away from this destiny and bring about an ending which is both more and less satisfying than the one that might have been expected. It is less satisfying in that it undermines the strengths of the film as a whole by introducing a sense of didacticism and improbability which it is to Soderbergh's great credit are elsewhere absent. The didactic elements of the ending also undermine the social message of the film, if one is intended, by subjugating the sense that all involved are victims of an impersonal system to the need to manipulate our sympathies so that the film can succeed as a thriller.
The credit side of this balance sheet is, though, substantial. The ending allows characters that might otherwise have been little more than place-holders to flourish, and we are treated to some memorable set-pieces along the way, most notably a scene in which two assassins stake out the same ground. If Traffic ultimately sacrifices honesty for entertainment then few will complain. It is a gripping and thought provoking study on a theme of importance that will live long in the memory as a thriller, as a documentary and as a piece of atmosphere, immediacy and stylistic excellence.