Sordid to the core, Trade does no justice to its saddening subject matter: the international trafficking of young women as sex slaves. Based on an important article by New York Times journalist Peter Landesman and adapted by Jose Rivera (The Motorcycle Diaries), the film positions itself as a righteous exposé. But an irredeemably stupid aesthetic strategy employed by director Marco Kreuzpaintner sinks it to the level of exploitation.

After a misguidedly pumped-up opening credits sequence depicting a bustling Mexico City (smothered in that trite amber hue made fashionable by Steven Soderbergh’s Traffic), we are introduced to 13-year-old Adriana (Paulina
Gaitan). Against her mother’s wishes, she bicycles down a lonely street and is promptly kidnapped by a band of Russian mobsters headed for the States. Her brother Jorge (Cesar Ramos) doggedly gives chase, but not before we are treated to a vicious rape perpetuated against Adriana’s fellow prisoner Veronica (Alicja Bachleda-Curus).

A story rooted in this much urgency calls for a steady hand and a heavy heart, but Kreuzpaintner’s showy direction is thoughtlessly self-serving. He demonstrates no affection for his characters as he places them in phony suspense scenarios that exist solely for shock value. One odious example: a victim manages to break free from her captors only to be struck dead by an oncoming car. Oops.

The only character with a scrap of nuance is the one whose presence seems completely arbitrary. Kevin Kline plays Ray, a Texas cop who happens to wander into the film precisely when Jorge finds himself needing a lift. A dubious buddy comedy feebly emerges from this unlikely encounter. Kline is amusingly stoical and prudish (an example of a fine actor lost in a substandard role), but his big emotional scene toward the end of the movie misses the mark.

The plot grinds on as Adriana is sold online to the highest bidder and tracked to a respectable-looking home in suburban New Jersey (actually the base of operations for a cadre of illicit flesh traders). But just when peace is finally
restored, Kreuzpaintner follows up with a bloody and superfluous final curtain that feels as bogus as it does anticlimactic.

It’s unclear whether the filmmakers truly intended Trade as a bitter screed against the horrible practices of sex traffickers or if the film was fashioned as a calling card for its up and coming director (the German Kreuzpaintner, a
protégé of Roland Emmerich, has come to Hollywood with the intention of staying). But the near-pornographic attention to salacious detail undercuts any emotional involvement with the material. It virtually cries out for the
experienced hand of a director like Ken Loach, who despite promoting unfashionable politics actually seems to enjoy people. Absurdly hypocritical, Trade struggles to depict wrongdoing but only succeeds in transgressing against the audience.