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In Che, Part I we learn that the legendary Argentine had asthma, so the film becomes a rallying cry for asthmatics of the world, unite. Look, chico, you too can cross the Sierra Maestra and smoke a pipe and big ol’ Cuban segars and, like, make a revolution and end up on tee shirts (see above) even without an inhaler. We don’t learn much else. I, like most Yankees, know very little about the Cuban Revolution; when the guerrillas attack a barracks, I assumed the attack was going to fail, because I knew Castro had gone to jail for attacking a barracks, but that earlier incident is not the one portrayed in the film.
I like the fellow playing the young Castro, who first shows up in his dark Latin lover mustache in Mexico City, but once he starts talking at the dinner table, and talking and talking, in that famous rhythm that I think is captured very well by Demian Bichir, we know who it is. It dooms the film up here in el norte, but thank god it’s mostly in Spanish. It would be unwatchable in Hollywoodish.
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