movie review by [click on photos Studio Movie
| By mid-January, the movie industry dumps its clunkiest releases in a
murky tide of cinematic flotsam. Among the most pretentious is Elliott's
modernized nightmare, based on the cerebral 1980 book by Marc Behm. It begins
when a British secret service agent (Trainspotting's smack-happy Ewan
McGregor, playing a character so superficial, he doesn't even go by a first
name) peeps on a rich minister's playboy son and catches him in "flagrant
delicto" with a lingerie-clad criminal known as Joanna (Ashley Judd). In the middle of their desktop tryst, she whips out a knife and
carves up the schmuck. Covered in dark, sticky blood, she cries, "Merry
Christmas, Daddy!" for no apparent reason.
This excites secret agent Eye, a recluse who avoids all human contact--except
through his outdated arsenal of bullet-shooting cameras, forever on the
fritz. Instead of nabbing the lady lunatic, he takes off across the
country-trailing her from the Big Apple to San Francisco, to Alaska. He skips his
regular assignment and works unbeknownst to his company contact, K.D. Lang
(who sports a suit and an attitude). His obsession with Joanna's murky identity
mounts into an all-consuming desire.
Call it a romance where the couple hardly ever makes contact. To make matters
more confusing, the Eye's wife and nine-year-old daughter are absent without
leave--a not-so-minor detail that is never fully explained. We're supposed to
draw psychological connections between the Eye's missing daughter (who
materializes as an annoying figment of the Eye's overwrought imagination) and
Judd, who is "just a little girl," according to the whispery voice-overs and
Chrissie Hynde's ever-present song lyrics.
Elliott's revisionist script (which doesn't come close to the faithfulness of
French director Claude Miller's 1983 opus, Deadly Circuit) pictures the Eye
as a bumbling, insecure dunderhead who can't even get his cell phones to
operate. The original story imagines him much older and craggier (which makes
perfect sense in context of the daughter/killer character overlapping). Here,
he has fallen in love with the cold-hearted killer. She's not a charming
murderer who inspires much sympathy. Her motivations fall flat, as does Judd's
one-note performance. Unless we understand what generates her violent
outbursts, they seem laughable, rather than menacing.
There's something askew in Elliott's logic (or lack thereof). Freud would
have a field day with this pretentious film. A father abandons his daughter,
which produces a man-hating psychopath. A mother takes her daughter away from
the father, which produces an identity crisis, neurosis, and hallucinations.
Underneath all the psychobabble is a thin current of misogyny. No positive
female figures make an appearance. Genevieve Bujold (the legendary actress
known for being very particular about her movie roles) plays a femi-nazi
shrink who teaches Joanna to wear campy wigs and drink cognac. Only Jason
Priestley gets to have a little fun, licking hypodermic needles in a desert
shack.
The confusing cinematography wants to tell us: "This is an art film." We know
by the oh-so-clever location set-ups (lensed inside a rotating parade of
souvenir snow globes) and the overemphasis on glitzy technology. Enough with
the glowing computer screens. Who wants to watch emotionless people
communicating through monitors? Better hope for a power outage.
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