Alright, fellow tapeheads, let’s rewind to a corner of the video store many frequented, perhaps with a slight blush, but always with anticipation: the raucous world of 80s Mexican comedy. Flickering onto our CRT screens today is a prime example, a film whose worn-out rental box probably saw more weekend action than most blockbusters: Los verduleros 2 (1987). Forget subtle wit; this is the cinematic equivalent of a tequila shot chased with a double entendre, served up by some of the genre's most recognizable faces.
Picking up where the original left off (because intricate continuity wasn't exactly the priority here), the film throws us back into the chaotic lives of our favourite greengrocers, primarily the inimitable duo of Alfonso Zayas and Luis de Alba. If you rented anything labelled "Comedia Picaresca Mexicana" in the 80s or 90s, you knew these guys. Zayas, with his trademark goofy expressions and masterful timing for physical comedy, and de Alba, often playing the slightly more conniving but equally hapless character (sometimes bringing his famous "El Pirrurris" persona close to the surface), were the kings of this domain. They weren't just actors; they were institutions within this specific brand of filmmaking. Seeing their names on the box was a guarantee of low-brow laughs, suggestive situations, and plots thinner than grocery store plastic bags.
Directed by the incredibly prolific Adolfo Martínez Solares, son of another Mexican cinema legend Gilberto Martínez Solares (who directed countless classics, including many with Tin Tan), Los verduleros 2 doesn't reinvent the wheel – it just keeps it rolling downhill, picking up absurdity along the way. Adolfo himself churned out films at an astonishing rate, mastering the art of the quick, cheap, and crowd-pleasing comedy. You knew what you were getting, and frankly, that was part of the appeal. No pretense, just pure, unadulterated silliness aimed squarely at laughs, however crude.
Now, when we talk 'action' in a VHS Heaven review, we usually mean exploding cars and elaborate stunt work. Here, the 'action' is decidedly more grounded, albeit frequently defying physics in its own slapstick way. The practical effects aren't miniatures or pyrotechnics; they're Alfonso Zayas falling down stairs, Luis de Alba getting smacked with improbable objects, or maybe a hilariously unconvincing chase scene through bustling Mexico City streets. Remember how real those pratfalls looked? That wasn't wire-work or clever editing half the time; it was just performers fully committed to the physical gag, often landing with a thud that felt genuine because it probably was.
There's a certain raw energy to this kind of comedy that digital effects often smooth away. The timing relies entirely on the performers and the editing, not on tweaking pixels in post-production. Supporting players like the wonderful Maribel Fernández, affectionately known as 'La Pelangocha', often found themselves caught in the crossfire of these comedic set-pieces, adding their own impeccable timing to the chaos. The humour itself, heavily reliant on wordplay, double meanings (albures), and situations pushing the boundaries of late-80s permissible suggestiveness, was the main event. This film, like many 'fichera' comedies (named after the B-girls or 'ficheras' who often featured), knew its audience wanted escapism laced with laughs and a bit of spice. Finding specific production trivia on these fast-and-furious shoots is tough, but it's known that Solares worked incredibly quickly, often improvising dialogue and scenes on set with his veteran cast who knew exactly how to deliver this material.
Okay, let's be honest: deep thematic resonance isn't the primary goal here. The plot, involving mix-ups, misunderstandings, flirtations, and perhaps some half-baked scheme, serves mainly as a framework to hang comedic sketches upon. Yet, there's a certain snapshot quality to these films. They capture a specific time and place – the look of Mexico City neighbourhoods, the everyday banter (albeit heightened for comedic effect), the social archetypes. Critically, these films were often dismissed or outright panned, seen as vulgar and low-quality. However, for audiences, particularly working-class Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, they were hugely popular, reflecting a certain reality and providing relatable, if exaggerated, characters and accessible humour. They were mainstays on Spanish-language television stations and absolute staples in video rental stores on both sides of the border. I distinctly remember the colourful, often lurid VHS boxes lining shelves, promising uncomplicated fun.
The music is usually functional, often jaunty cumbias or synthesiser riffs typical of the era, underscoring the gags rather than driving emotion. The cinematography is basic, focused on capturing the performances without much flourish. It’s filmmaking stripped down to its most essential elements: camera, actors, jokes.
Los verduleros 2 is pure, unfiltered 80s Mexican slapstick. It’s dated, the humour is often crude by today's standards, and the production values are undeniably low. Yet, watching it again evokes that specific feeling of late-night VHS discoveries, the slightly fuzzy picture adding to the charm. Zayas and de Alba are masters of their craft within this specific genre, and their chemistry is undeniable. It delivers exactly what it promises: silly escapism.
Rating: 5/10 - This score reflects its standing within the 'cine de ficheras' genre. It's not high art, and judged against broader cinematic standards, it falters significantly. But for fans of Zayas, de Alba, and this particular brand of 80s Mexican comedy, it's a perfectly functional, occasionally hilarious example that delivers precisely the expected dose of low-budget laughs and nostalgic absurdity.
Final Thought: It might not have the explosions of a blockbuster, but the comedic shrapnel from Los verduleros 2 hits with a uniquely raw, unpolished 80s impact – a reminder that sometimes, all you needed was a couple of rubber-faced geniuses and a flimsy pretext for chaos. Still good for a chuckle, if you know what you're getting into.