Chop Shop

A dose of raw realism is a refreshing antidote to the depressive ennui of Bloomberg-run New York. In Manhattan, we complain about slow subways and unpleasant scaffolding. In Willets Point, Queens, Alejandro — a 12-year-old street orphan and protagonist of Chop Shop, now playing in New York — hustles candy on the subway and snatches purses to make ends meet.

A chop shop is where stolen cars are "chopped up" and sold for parts. Alejandro — or "Ale" — and his 16-year-old sister, Isamar, live in a tiny, makeshift room in such a shop. To make ends meet, Ale learns the method of the junkyard trade, and sells pirated DVDs on the side. Isamar cooks at a nearby taco stand, and, as her brother tortuously witnesses, turn tricks for truck drivers. Their farfetched and fragile dream to buy a van and start a food vending business emotionally inoculates them from the harsh reality of the world around them.

Chop Shop is the second feature film of Iran-born director Ramin Bahrani. Three years ago, his acclaimed Man Push Cart followed a Pakistani immigrant as he sold coffee and bagels from a rented cart in Manhattan. The film won several awards, and was shot in less than a month on a tight budget. With Chop Shop, Bahrani again obscures the divide between fiction and documentary. All actors are non-professional and the local workers comprise the cast. Paul Sowulski, who plays the shop's manager, actually owns the garage in the film.

The movie takes place in Queens, on a sprawling 75 acres known as the Iron Triangle — the same area Fitzgerald coined "the Valley of Ashes" in The Great Gatsby. The unpaved, muddy streets feel miles from the New York most of us know, yet Shea Stadium is visible in the smoggy background and the US Open takes place nearby.

For Ale, the Queens Bridge is a towering diversion from the industrial wasteland below. But while on the bridge, Ale doesn't stop to look at the view of Manhattan — he goes there to stash his cash a hidden coffee tin. From the steep ledge, he and his best friend throw grocery carts onto a pile of trash below. Bleak as his life may be, he doesn't feel sorry for himself. And his character isn't looking to generate pathos.

Bahrani and cinematographer Michael Simmonds do a laudable job exposing the underbelly of the city from Ale's unsentimental perspective. But we're left with unanswered questions. By never exploring those who we expect to be watching out of Ale — his parents, the schools, child labor watchdogs … all absent — Behrani tempts unbelievability. Indeed, if we focus on the minutia, Ale's life is hard to believe. But we take anything from Chop Shop's gritty realist style, it's not a close-up of details — it's the overall mood of the film. And in the end Ale doesn't have to convince anyone in the audience of his character's authenticity.

On the subject of authenticity, some may wonder why Ale and Isamar, who are from Puerto Rico, don't speak Spanish. You don't have to live in New York to realize that it's the lingua franca of that section of Queens, and the film is immersed Latino culture — reggaeton pumps out of passing SUVs and taco stands abound. Would Chop Shop have shined brighter with a Spanish script, or who knows if it would have been to the detriment of the direction? And besides, Ale's Spanish-inflected accent — like his parents' unexplained absence — is unusual, but not worth the effort to interrupt and inquire about. Behrani suggests that some details are not worth the interruption to explain.

At its best, Chop Shop is a glimpse into the gritty reality of the other side of the city. New Yorkers should be mindful of this inequality of life between the boroughs, although the movie offers little to get the blood boiling. Behrani's movies may resemble documentaries in style and content, but there aren't, and they aren't out to score rhetorical points. Those who wish to be made to feel more intensely about Chop Shop's milieu know where to go. Just take the 7 train toward Shea Stadium, and experience the place for yourself.