The Motorcycle Diaries
(2004)
Dir. Walter Salles
I attempted to read On the Road, I really did. Okay, so that’s a lie. I tried to listen to the book on tape, but even with nothing but time to spare during my unemployed summer in NYC and with it conveniently placed only a few clicks away on my Ipod, I couldn’t get through it. Despite the fact that cross-country adventure possess irresistibly intriguing life-changing possibilities, I just didn’t care. Kerouac came across not as a cultural icon but as an aimless inebriated idiot. Not that we needed another example of Americans being selfish spoiled snobs, but hey, here it is. If Jack were Latin American, socially and politically aware, educated in medicine, and free from alcoholic dependency, he might have written The Motorcycle Diaries instead. So, basically, it’s not ‘on the road” at all, except for the whole on the road part of it.
Based on the book of the same name by Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, The Motorcycle Diaries chronicles the epic voyage by dilapidated motorcycle and eventually by foot of Ernesto and Alberto Granado. Alberto playing the role of the obnoxious over sexed best friend that every innocent and well-adjusted boy needs. The road trip starts out (as they all do) a quest in search of ass and adventure, but ends unconventionally with humanitarian volunteer work in a leper colony. The expedition serves to; a) fortify a life-long friendship and to; b) open Ernesto’s eyes to the political injustices of his South American homeland, which in turn; c) shapes his personality into eventually becoming the infamous revolutionary Che Guevara. It’s hard to imagine the delicate sensitive asthmatic boy presented in the film becoming the guerilla warrior that the history books portray.
Don’t worry, for those of you not interested in reading subtitles or engaging in any sort of historical socio-political contemplation, there’s something for everyone in this flick. Just sit back and marvel at the beauty that is Geal Garcia Bernal. Because, holy shit, he’s pretty hot and seeing as my taste buds usually steer clear of mocha, that’s a bold statement.
Granted, I never finished accompanying Kerouac on his journey but I do know for a fact that on his escapade he did nothing to attempt to better mankind, merely he inspired aimless restlessness quelled only by inebriation. He died alone, a drunk. (Surprise) Ernesto went on to reform various parts of Latin America, inspiring men to work not for themselves, but for the greater good of mankind. His methods might have been a little rash, but his motives seemed pure, and, hey, at least he did something with his life. I mean, just look at the canned rebellion fashions and accessories that were inspired by that high-contrast image of his face.
