In Hollywood musicals of the '40s and '50s, perfunctory storylines were more or less the industry standard, providing a bridge just sturdy enough to connect the show-stopping song-and-dance numbers. Pitched at a featherweight tone to complement the music, they typically involved backstage shenanigans and a few romantic entanglements—whatever was needed to goose the emotions to a point where the characters could burst into song. An impassioned celebration of the flamenco tradition in southern Spain, Tony Gatlif's Vengo attempts the flip side of the same equation, with a wildly varied degree of success. In this case, the wafer-thin scenario serves the much darker undercurrents of gypsy music, songs of mourning, violence, and exile that evoke a sad history and the hint of inevitable tragedy to come. Perhaps because of this gravity, the marriage of song and story seems incongruous, with exhilarating performance interludes that are richer and more meaningful than the standard-issue revenge plot can bear. Perversely enough, Gatlif cast Antonio Canales, an internationally recognized flamenco dancer, in the lead role, but limits him to a few whirls and a lot of boisterous hand-clapping. The rest of the time, poor Canales has to act with overbearing élan as an impassioned gypsy clan leader trying to stave off a pending blood feud between his family and its generations-old rivals, the Caravacas. Reeling from the death of his young daughter, Canales takes a special interest in caring for mentally disabled nephew Orestes Villasan Rodriguez, whose father has gone into hiding after killing a member of the rival family. Thirsting for revenge, the Caravacas mark Rodriguez for death, leaving Canales in the precarious position of negotiating a peaceful resolution while staying true to the interests of his clan. What does any of this have to do with music, or vice versa? Gatlif (Latcho Drom, Gadjo Dilo) implies that gypsy songs are rooted in hardship, bloodshed, and internal strife, but his hackneyed, bare-bones plot does little to evoke such thorny emotions. Unlike other films in the genre, the events don't necessarily lead to the music, because the music is already there, in restaurants and weddings, parties and funerals, ready to burst forth at any occasion. The joyous scenes of musicians gathering in a half-circle around assorted vocalists and dancers at first seem like jarring non sequiturs, but they're really the heart of the film; the dramatic scenes are the non sequiturs. With its riveting, improvisational performances and masterful use of the Cinemascope frame, Vengo easily surpasses the turgid formalism of Flamenco and Tango, Carlos Saura's recent forays into stylized dance. But without so much as a rudimentary story, the film seems like a wasted opportunity.