J Paul Johnson
In The Low End Theory, the neo-noir takes on a new flavor, setting its crime story in a contemporary hip hop milieu populated exclusively by Latinx and LGBTQ+ characters. That fact alone—given that film noir generally and neo-noir more specifically have never been all that inclusive of either—makes the film well worth a watch. An excellent lead performance from Sofia Yepes as the conflicted protagonist Raquel, tortured by the same desires that have defined the genre ever since Fred MacMurray jonesed for Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, grounds The Low End Theory in a palpably pulse-pounding narrative with considerable stakes.
Raquel is an aspiring hip hop producer with more talent than resources or connections. She’s also a veteran whose PTSD flashbacks and nightmares have her more than a little jittery. To make ends meet, she works for a drug boss named Uly (Eddie Martinez), and his enterprise has become her family: Raquel has entered a relationship with Uly’s sister, Giselle (played by the nonbinary actor Ser Anzoategui), and Uly’s chief lieutenant, Efraim (Rene Rosado), is like a watchful, wary older brother. Raquel’s job: to launder the operations’ profits. She’s the one entrusted with running the cash safely from one destination to the next. It’s high risk work with only a little reward.
Raquel’s Double Indemnity moment comes she she meets the irresistibly sexy siren Veronica (Sidney Flanigan), who lends her voice to one of Raquel’s beats. Soon, Raquel is deep in the throes of passion with her new crush, though she knows next to nothing else about her. That changes when Veronica reveals a secret: she’s being harassed by another drug dealer—a competitor to Uly, it will turn out—for debts an ex-boyfriend incurred. If only Raquel ever had access to the kind of cash that could ease her new girlfriend’s woes.
There, then, is the rub. Uly and his operation have brought Raquel under their wing and treated her like a member of the family which she has become. But Raquel can never be free of their surveillance or control, and she’s become stuck in her dead-end relationship with Giselle. It’s an excellent set-up, establishing the exact conflicts that the appearance of Veronica’s character exacerbates and promises—at least to Raquel—to resolve. That is, if Raquel can pull off a double-cross that will leave her with the money she needs to jumpstart her career and give her and Veronica both a fresh start on their lives.
Director and (with Yepes) co-writer Francisco Ordoñez keeps the story beats quick as the rising conflict reaches its violent resolution. His direction doesn’t resort to gimmickry or even to the kinds of stylistic experimentation for which neo- (and neon-) noir is often known. Instead, the focus here is predominantly on Yepes’ Raquel and her dilemma. To fall prey to the allure of sex and money has been a staple of film noir since World War Two, but it can still feel fresh when playing out in an unfamiliar setting with a non-traditional lead character, and part of the jouissance of The Low End Theory is seeing a non-normative female protagonist tempted by, given into, and ultimately betrayed by those familiar urges.
Yepes, who co-wrote the story in part to create a more inclusive space for Latinx and LGBTQ+ cast and characters, is excellent throughout as the veteran traumatized by conflict but unable to escape it. So too is Flanigan (Never Rarely Sometimes Always) as the film’s femme fatale: it’s a choice role that gives the actor ample opportunity to demonstrate a range of desires and emotions. Martinez, Anzoategui, and Rosado make for a compelling crime family whose allegiances are too strong to betray. And while the film’s visual style borrows less directly from the noir idiom than do its narrative patterns, the violence that escalates when Raquel attempts to pull off her own heist is both suspenseful and satisfying.
Too typically, Latinx characters have been relegated to the periphery of noir narratives—when they have been present at all. The representation of LGBTQ+ characters has been no less problematic historically, often equating non-normativity with deviance. With its compelling story and strong leads, The Low End Theory dispenses with such notions, letting its characters simply be Latinx and/or LGBTQ+ without their being so played for surprise revelations or gratuitous exploitation. Those desires that film noir isolated back in the first place—for sex and for money or the freedom either might bring—are universal enough, strong enough, to hold their own in almost any setting with almost any characters. And in The Low End Theory, Yepes’ Raquel’s history, ambitions, and desires collide in compelling fashion.
