Read a handful reviews, some scholarly criticism or student papers and it is easy to jump to the conclusion that The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada is about a whole lot of things: illegal immigration, the mythos of the old west, friendship, police corruption, madness and even just the art of storytelling. While each of those certainly qualify as themes which are explored in the film, they all work together explore in greatest detail one singular subject which can be identified as what the story is about: identity.
The very title of the film hints suggestively at this assertion. What is a burial, really? It is a means of disposal, of course: dead bodies must be put somewhere away from the living in order to not to infect them and corrupt the still living. However, burial at sea and cremation accomplish the same thing and carry out the task in a much more efficient and effective manner. And yet, the sheer volume of property handed over to build graveyards is truly breathtaking. No, a burial is more than a way to dispose of a dead body, it is a way to maintain one’s identity for eternity. At least in theory. A grave is just a hole in the ground, but a burial implies rite and ritual; headstones, tombstones or other markers to let people know the identity of the bones in that hole in the ground which was once a person.
Melquiades Estrada receives three burials. The first affords him no identity. The second affords him an identity which he would not desire. The third comprises the bulk of the film in which the other themes play out. The film only exists because the narrative tells a story about trying to give Estrada his identity through a proper and dignified burial. Although not physical easy, this would seem to be a rather philosophically easy task to carry out: just follow his wishes. But fulfilling his wishes is what makes it philosophically difficult because the real identity of Estrada is a mystery to say the least.
The mystery of Estrada’s identity—identity in general, really—is explored through the thematic undertones of the art of storytelling. The narrative is constructed in a non-linear fashion, meaning the events are not told chronologically. The story moves backward and forward in time even as it mostly movies in a linear fashion geographically. For the most part, anyway. While time is unsteady, place is less so. This subtly suggests that the mystery of someone else’s identity is often constructed perceptually as being based on what they can see from where they stand. For the person whose identity they are trying to construct, their self-identity is based on the fluidity of when they were rather than where they were. Despite this, however, the proverbial sayings all try to convince us that it is the other perception which is true. “Home is where the heart is.” “There’s no place like home.” And, of course, one’s identity is inextricably linked to where they are from. Thus, the rise of nationalism even if a person has actually only spent a fraction of their lives actually living in that country.
Pete spends most of the film believing he has a handle on his friend Estrada’s identity because he has the advantage of Estrada having related information about himself. But even he is perceptually off-base because the information supplied by Estrada turns out to be, well, complicated. And that term is being generous. It is also the problem for viewers because although Estrada is a living, breathing character in the flashback scenes, his identity is only established through the perception of others. To the brain-damaged border control officer who kills him, he’s just another illegal immigrant whose life isn’t worth a thought. To Pete, of course, he is a close friend worth dying over. And yet Pete can no more provide a genuinely accurate portrait of Estrada’s identity than the man who kills him.
All those other thematic elements at play that reviewers and critics and scholars discuss—ironic subversion of the immigration problem, demythologizing the old west, the nature of friendship and betrayal, systemic racism in American law enforcement—are all there and no to be denied or ignored or undervalued. But ultimately, they are just gears in the machinery of a narrative which makes the The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada about just one thing: the elusive nature of identity.
