Directed by Leon Ichaso

Written by Leon Ichaso, David Darmstaedter & Todd Bello

Starring: Marc Anthony & Jennifer Lopez

Running Time: 106 min

A Salsa star is born to walk the line in this more giggly than Gigli biopic coming soon to a DVD dollar bin near you.

Having lived a life without once consciously taking note of any of pioneer Salsa artist Hector Lavoe’s music, it’s a safe bet that this film will not prompt audiences to check out his catalog.

Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony, this generation’s Steve and Eydie, are undoubtedly the only ones to have sensed box-office gold in an umpteenth telling of a high-profile celebrity couple slated for destruction at the hands of booze and drugs. Give Mr. Anthony some credit. In his version, he has the wherewithal to play both the substance abuser as well as Mrs. Norman Maine.

No obvious technique is left unemployed. The black-and-white footage dispersed throughout the film is a textbook compendium of video interview clichés. Grainy footage, breakneck zooms, clapboards and visible microphones all combine to look like your typical reunion show.

In a flashback to 1985 we see a decked-to-the-nines Puchi (Lopez) taking a limo to her friendly neighborhood shooting gallery to pick up hubby Hector (Anthony) and escort him to that night’s performance. On stage, Hector’s charisma becomes apparent. From a distance one is reminded of Billy Crystal (in his Rabbit Test period), Steve Buscemi and, given Hector’s diminutive size and penchant for Sister Bertrille collars, Sammy Davis Jr.

Flashback further to 1963 and the screenwriters can check off a few pertinent bits of back story. In Puerto Rico, a young Hector’s father threatens to disown his son if he moves to New York. Hector does and dad follows up on his promise. Since Hector is one of Salsa music’s founding fathers, an oversimplified scene where his manager discovers the magical equation of The Bronx + Puerto Rico = Salsa must be included.

The couple first meets (in jarring hand-held close-up) in a nightclub. We plainly see Puchi providing Hector with his first marijuana cigarette, which contradicts later video footage in which she swears up and down that she never introduced him to drugs.

Feeble attempts are made to reference societal obstacles Hispanics endure. His birth name becomes a thing of the past. “Lavoe” is quickly positioned behind “Hector,” because what he was originally labeled sounds too much like an “unemployment line name.” Puchi meets Hector’s sister, and it quickly becomes apparent that she is not Hispanic enough for them. When asked what her family does for a living, Puchi replies, “They sell dope.”

Puchi is the perfect bride. Sure, she has a mouth on her, but she seems content to do whatever drugs her hubby brings home and is quick to look the other way when it comes to his numerous indiscretions. Even on their wedding day, Puchi has to sift through the spoils of a bachelor party to find her betrothed and drag him to the altar on time.

When Hector suggests a three-way, Puchi agrees only if her man will get it on with another dude while she watches. While homophobic Hector may have partnered with musician Willie Colon, there was no chance of a Willie even getting close to this hombre’s colon.

All the good times eventually caught up with Lavoe who eventually contracted AIDS. Ashamed and wanting to keep his illness a secret, Lavoe attempted suicide. Instead of a walk in the briny, Lavoe leapt from a building. The idiot who couldn’t even kill himself properly lived five years after the plunge.

Director Leon Ichaso seems desperate to return to the glory days of his hit Crossover Dream, a film that El Cantante is obviously patterned after. That film at least had a decent look to it. This time the production design is tackier than a Tijuana whorehouse, and I wish I had in my wallet what was spent on ruffled shirts, blue eyeliner and black mascara.

Knowing nothing about the subject beforehand, here is what I learned after watching El Cantante: Hector Lavoe was a pathetic, abusive, heroin-fueled brute who managed to get by in life simply because he could sing. His son died due to an accident involving a gun dad left lying around the house. Lavoe was the foulest of creatures, who cheated on his wife, mostly with smack, every chance he could.

While watching, I kept waiting for the moment of redemption films of this ilk inevitably provide. True to form, instead of closing with a shot showing Lavoe as the drugged out monster that he was, we’re shown the artist in concert. Not surprisingly, El Cantante is content to obliterate the truth in favor of a sappy ending.

Rating: BOMB!