In his screenplays for Amores Perros, 21 Grams and Babel, Guillermo Arriaga traded in a non-linear style, jumping back and forth from different settings and through different periods of time, and interlacing emotionally charged, seemingly discrete, sometimes convoluted narrative tapestries in a manner that, to critics, made his work seem as much about the artifice and construction as the actual characters. His directorial debut, The Burning Plain, evidences all these same old tricks, but generally ranks out among the better of his works, excepting a bit of curious overwriting.

In Mexico, a young motherless girl, Maria (Tessa Ia), lives happily with her father and his best friend until a tragic accident changes her life. In the New Mexico bordertown of Las Cruces, two teenagers, Mariana (Jennifer Lawrence) and Santiago (J.D. Pardo), find love in the aftermath of their parents’ sudden deaths. In an abandoned trailer, Mariana’s mother, Gina (Kim Basinger), embarks on a passionate affair. In Oregon, restaurant manager Sylvia (Charlize Theron) masks a sexually charged storm within via a cool, professional demeanor. When a stranger from Mexico confronts her about her mysterious past, though, Sylvia is launched forward into a journey through space and time that inextricably connects her to these disparate characters, all of whom are grappling with their own tragic romantic destinies.

Stylistically, The Burning Plain is more of a piece with Tommy Lee Jones’ dusty, restrained work behind the camera on The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, which Arriaga also wrote. Smartly eschewing the frantic nature of Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s directing style, Arriaga also showcases a nice touch working with his actors; the performances in the movie are subdued and naturalistic.

Strangely, most of the film’s faults lay in its writing and construction. While his work is characterized by a novelistic depth where a character’s actions need not be explained immediately (or sometimes at all), Arriaga still doesn’t seem to completely trust his audience. Action is sometimes edited at odds with the emotion of a given scene. More bafflingly, Arriaga seems not content with the mere presentation of metaphor; he instead drags the movie’s subtext up to the surface, ladling on talk of capital-S scars both physical and emotional. This grates, but makes the rightness of the film’s slightly removed ending all the more acute, and striking. (Magnolia, R, 111 minutes)