Hey folks, Harry here... Clive Owen is my current fave male badass actor currently occupying the part Russell Crowe occupied (and will re-capture with CINDERELLA MAN). Now - this film doesn't currently have a release date, but should be distributed by Miramax once they figure out what film they have here. What this means is... while the film wasn't smiled upon by this particular reviewer, it is still in post production where thrillers often find their thrills. Now this is the first American film by Mikael Håfström, a Swedish director known for a pair of so-so Swedish thrillers and TV work there. I've seen both those thrillers and wasn't too taken with them, so there is a chance that the film won't be that great when all is said and done, but till then... Let's hope the talented cast and post production finds the best film in the end. I want KING ARTHUR to be the one bad egg in Clive's filmography. Here ya go - it's light on the spoilers...
Harry:
Long-time fan of the site; first time submitting.
Caught a screening of "Derailed" the other night, and was surprised to see no one beat me to the punch hitting you with a review. I got to warn you guys off this stinker.
'Cuz boy is "Derailed" a STINKER! I didn't know what it was until my ass was in the seat and it started rolling, and as soon as I saw Stuart Beattie's name on this one, I considered heading for the door. I didn't care for "Collateral" much, and I expected something equally preposterous here. And boy howdy, does it deliver in the preposterous department.
Clive Owen plays Charlie, a marketing exec with an ice-cold wife and a seriously diabetic daughter (apparently diabetes is the only disease proferred in the Screenwriter's Handbook of Weak-ass Plot Devices: see also "Panic Room," "Con Air," and so on). One day he meets cute-as-pie Jenniefer Aniston, a big-wig business something-rather, on the subway and strikes up a relationship.
The first third drags (I'm sure they'll trim it) as Owen and Aniston foster a friendship and then flirt with the idea of an affair (they're both married, with daughters) until finally ending up in a sleazy downtown hotel on a rainy night to at last get their freak on. Vincent Cassel shows up, mugs them, violently rapes Aniston in front of Owen, and takes off. Aniston insists on not going to the cops because she's sure her crazy husband will ask for a divorce after finding out what she was doing at the hotel with Charlie. So they don't file a police report. Then, a few weeks later, the attacker/rapist contacts Charlie, demanding money. Charlie rolls over for it, and then tumbles down the rabbit hole into a seamy underworld of constant blackmail, stalking, and harassment. Why doesn't he go to the authorities when it all gets out of hand? Because, apparently, he'd rather prevent a near-stranger (Aniston) from having to get a divorce and lose her daughter than safeguard his own family's safety. This is really where the whole thing lost me; it gets too bogged down in questions of believeability. At one point, he hires an ex-con, Winston (played by RZA), to intimidate Cassel into leaving him alone, but the plan turns disasterous when Winston gets killed and Charlie's implicated.
And so it goes and goes, with Cassel attacking Charlie and threatening his family. Finally, toward the end, there's a few requisite HUGE PLOT TWISTS (yawn), which I won't give away but you've probably predicted from my synopsis. I figured at some point the script would try and throw us for a loop, because up to the last twenty minutes the film is completly by-the-numbers. The plot twists are predictable and derivative: too little, too late at that point. These sorts of twists have become cinematic deodorant: they cover up all the other stinky parts. In the end, it all wraps up with a silly and violent epilogue that serves as a half-hearted plug for the redemptive power of sheer, bloody venegence.
Overall, the acting's fine, but uninspired. Aniston is playing against type in just the kind of role that makes you wish apple-cheeked t.v. stars would never again play against type. Seeing Rachel violently raped by a hooded thug made me want to close my eyes, plug my ears, and hum-hum-hum my way through it. Clive Owen is tough as usual (that steely-eyed gaze could make Max Cady wet his undies) but his scary new freaky-white teeth (I know, I know, they've been there since "King Arthur") and a spotty American accent blunted his performance. Vincent Cassel may have been an inspired casting choice - he's pretty genuinely creepy at times - if it hadn't been for the piss-poor writing of the character. Other than that, there's a few hip-hop stars tossed in for good measure.
Camera work and direction are purely ho-hum; the music was temp tracks across the board. It's violent and packed with sex and languague -- a definite hard "R," I'd think. Overall, it's just so blah. The story is irrecovably far-fetched, and the writing squeeks when it should roar.
That's about all for now. I gotta go play with my ROTS figures (Mon Mothma, Tarrful... huzzah!)
If you need a name, call me THE SOMNAMBULIST...
So long, big guy. Take care of yourself.
