Salvador

Oliver Stone sets up the swirling nightmare with the bestial sketching of a Steadman cartoon, civil war-split El Salvador on the cusp of the Eighties is the logical next stop for a weasel who's been to Ireland, Cambodia, Afghanistan and Lebanon. The chief gonzo is a hopped-up San Francisco journalist (James Woods), a scotch-taped mess of speed, booze and harridans who heads south with his shambling Sixties-capsule buddy (James Belushi) for "some good combat shots for AP." Charred corpses welcome them into their new "wacko joint," U.S.-approved thuggery in full flower: A fancy-pants tyrant gets his boots shined while shooting at civilians, underground dungeons are contrasted with sprawling open graves, the murder of Romero is decided at El Major's dinner table and carried out in a church. Between this and the illusory hope of insurrectionist camps is the brief idyll of a beachside hammock with a campesina (Elpidia Carrillo) and the bogus oasis of a pool party for military ramrods and reporters ("fuckin' yuppies"). The heated style is a piling up of Huston, Pontecorvo and Peckinpah, the camera is always hopping on hot coals, looking for rough edges to scratch the eye. Stone is a shake-up chronicler of wounds, identifying himself with the brave correspondent (John Savage) who plunks himself down under a swooping bombardier for a snapshot of the line of fire. Woods sneaks in jittery comedy ("I can still take a few hits from a joint, right?" he bargains at the confessional) between didactic spiels ("What are the death squads but the brainchild of the CIA?"), though the lingering feeling is one of impotent rage. The coda points up the connection to Richardson's The Border, Reagan is already babbling about "the terrorists" on TV. With Cynthia Gibb, Michael Murphy, Tony Plana, Colby Chester, and Juan Fernández.