Confidence
There’s no question that screenwriter Doug Jung is a student of film noir. His script for Confidence touches on nearly every convention of the genre and straddles the line between homage and rip-off. We have a doomed protagonist, a sultry femme fatale, a sure-fire heist that’s bound to become complicated, and more double crosses than you can shake a stick at. Coupled with elements from the Pulp Fiction era, which revitalized the form, Jung has thrown in a post-modern sensibility, a hip ironic tone, and plenty of fancy camera moves and transitions from director James Foley. All the pieces are in place, yet Confidence never catches fire, due in large part to Foley’s rote execution and the cast’s lack of enthusiasm (with the exception of Dustin Hoffman).
Jake Vig (Edward Burns) is a small-time grifter with a loyal crew. While in Los Angeles he and his cohorts–the ever-irritable Gordo (Paul Giamatti) and two crooked cops, Whitworth and Manzano (Donal Logue and Luis Guzman), who are as dim as they are loyal–mistakenly pinch “the King” (Hoffman), a local gangster with an attention deficit disorder and a penchant for strippers. Rather than return the King’s money promptly, Vig proposes that he and the King embark on an elaborate scam that would involve more cash from the mobster, but could result in a $5 million pay out and the humiliation of his rival, crooked banker Morgan Price (Robert Forester). The crime boss bites and Vig is off and running, recruiting Lily (Rachel Weisz), a hot pickpocket, to lure in key marks along a spree that includes wire transfers, shady check cashing, and the transportation of cash over the Canadian border. All the while, a federal agent (Andy Garcia) is never far behind.
Viewers know their movies well enough to anticipate the twists and turns upon which film noir is built. Fooling the audience and playing against its expectations have become increasingly difficult. Memento and The Deep End, both from 2001, were the last two films to pull this off and both added new wrinkles to noir conventions.
Confidence doesn’t belong in the same league as those films. Foley and company seem only to go through the motions. There’s hardly a creative spark.
Burns sleepwalks through his part and barely registers on screen. His laid-back vibe affects Weisz, whose lack of confidence makes her role as temptress unconvincing. Garcia, Logue, and Guzman are given little to do; their characters are severely underwritten. Hoffman, however, though given little screen time, makes the most of every scene. He might lack the physical presence of a ruthless criminal, but the actor knows how to throw a curve and conveys the King’s violent mindset. The King’s oddball behavior also allows Hoffman to utilize his comic gifts, lending the character a peculiar humanity.
At one point, the King cautions Vig by saying “sometimes style can get you killed.” It’s an ironic line in a cookie-cutter film that takes few chances. Confidence knows the steps of the film noir dance but fails to find its own rhythm.
(Running time 1:38, rated R)
Grade C+
The Real Cancun
The Real Cancun, the cinematic offshoot of the MTV hit The Real World, isn’t a movie. And calling it a “documentary” would be a disservice to Ken Burns and social historians everywhere. Striking while the iron is hot, producers Mary-Ellis Bunim and Jonathan Murray have brought the successful formula of their TV show–take a group of college-age youngsters from various walks of life and put them in a posh urban setting to see how poorly they behave–to the annual flesh market known as “spring break.” The producers intended to “kick it up the bar in terms of the kinds of stories we want to tell,” which allegedly means being able to actually show the bare breasts of the alcohol-addled young women they take advantage of.
It’s hard to blame the 16 clueless kids on display. After all, they are offered an all-expense paid trip to Cancun, elegant digs, a chance at “15 minutes” of fame, and the likelihood of many a sexual encounter. This is what Casey, a 25-year-old model whose goal in life is to follow in Fabio’s footsteps, treasures. Assured that his chiseled good looks are more than enough for him to bag any babe he wants, Casey takes the direct approach and asks ever-so-coyly any group of ladies around, “Does anyone want to make out or something?” The lack of takers proves the direct approach isn’t always the best approach.
Then again, neither is the wallflower tactic. Pity poor Alan, a 19-year-old straight-laced kid from Texas who’s never taken a drink in his life and becomes paralyzed whenever a pretty girl looks his way. Adamant about sticking to his teetotaling ways, he soon succumbs to temptation, gets hammered, and announces loudly and proudly he’s on a “boobie” hunt. One look in the mirror and his search would be over. Of course, young men aren’t the only ones who’ll regret their participation in this project years from now. Nubile 19-year-old twins Roxanne and Nicole bump and grind into each other like porn stars at a wet T-shirt contest, while Laura, a 20-year-old from a one-horse town in Wisconsin, goes a bit too far to prove she isn’t some rural hayseed.
At least The Real Cancun proves that chivalry isn’t dead. While bungee jumping at a seashore site, Sara is stung by a jellyfish and is told by the paramedic who treats her that pouring urine on the wound is the best treatment for it. Cup in hand, the ever-sensitive Matt heeds the call of nature and lovingly pours his discharge over the swollen injury. I can just imagine this story sweetly being recounted at Thanksgiving years from now to the grandkids.
Anyone hopeful for the future leaders of our country is advised to skip this film–as are any parents with college-aged students who flock to these tropical meccas. You don’t want to know what your kids are up to.
(Running time 1:30, rated R)
Grade D
It Runs in the Family
It Runs in the Family is more a piece of cinematic history than a satisfying film, a project that finds acting legend Kirk Douglas on the screen with his son Michael–no slouch in the industry either–for the first time. It’s obvious from the beginning frame, in which real family pictures are used as the opening credits roll, that the film will touch on the non-fictional relationship between the two men. Had the movie actually confronted and exposed this relationship’s rough edges, It Runs in the Family could have been truly unique. Unfortunately, this is more like a sanitized home movie portraying how the Douglases wished things should have been. One skeleton does escape from the family closet: The acting gene in the clan has run its course with Michael; his son Cameron gives an awkward, obvious performance that rings as hollow and false as the rest of the film fashioned by screenwriter Jesse Wigutow.
To say that the film’s plate is too full is like saying the Titanic had a small mishap. Alex Gromberg (Michael) is a high-priced Manhattan attorney who has lost his way after having taken over his father Mitchell’s (Kirk) firm. Alex has a secure home life with his loving wife Rebecca (Bernadette Peters), but a mid-life crisis starts to rear its ugly head. Meanwhile, his father is seeking purpose in his later years, having recently survived a stroke. Though he is comforted by his wife Evelyn (Diana Douglas, Kirk’s real-life first wife), he senses something is missing. In addition, Alex’s eldest son Asher (Cameron) is struggling at school because he fears failure, and his younger brother Eli (Rory Culkin) has his first case of the love bug.
Wigutow and director Fred Schepisi decide to follow one crisis with another, perhaps to distract us from the film’s lack of depth. We’re subjected to a case of mistaken infidelity, two deaths, a Viking’s funeral, and an arrest. When the three Douglases embark on a comical fishing trip that fails to produce a single laugh, you can sense how desperate the film has become. You can anticipate where the wheels are turning toward the next insincere moment.
There’s a good movie buried in Wigutow’s script and it would have been far better off had It Runs in the Family tried to do less. Three of the plot strands could have been developed into more meaningful stories. The scenes in which Alex finds purpose once more by taking on a pro bono case and Eli’s yearnings to understand his first romantic feelings are sincere. Mitchell’s wrestling with his own mortality is also moving. However, Wigutow is far more interested in generating sitcom-like clichés than mining moments of true emotion.
What would make for a far more powerful experience would be a no-holds-barred documentary on the Douglas clan, each member airing his or her side of the many problems and dysfunctions at which It Runs in the Family only hints. Michael evidently suffered while growing up because of his father’s long absences while making films. And it must have been difficult in this film for Michael to escape from Kirk’s long shadow. Surely Kirk has suffered from his own guilt of family neglect. Diana has come to terms with his infidelities. And Cameron must build a meaningful life that doesn’t depend on his silver platter. No doubt, the Douglas clan is an interesting family, unlike the Grombergs.
(Running time 1:41, rated PG-13)
Grade C
Identity
Rarely has a film infuriated me as much as Identity. For most of its running time, this Columbia thriller directed by the talented James Mangold (Cop Land) is a derivative but competent take on Agatha Christie’s renowned Ten Little Indians, the inspiration, credited or not, for as many films and television episodes as any other novel of its vintage. But about an hour in, Mangold and screenwriter Michael Cooney muck up the works with a plot twist so incredibly ill-advised that it renders everything completely moot. To be fair, the filmmakers don’t just yank this twist out of thin air; through cross-cutting and a few well-placed clues, the audience is fully prepared for something. Although I tried, I was unable to guess exactly what.
In the Christie tradition, ten strangers are trapped overnight at a seedy Nevada motel during a torrential rainstorm. Since time is precious in this hour-and-a-half feature, Mangold economically casts a bunch of familiar faces and allows them to do their stock in trade, allowing us to feel we know these characters at first sight. Our rain-soaked travelers include a Sartre-reading limousine driver (John Cusack), whose hidden talents include an aptitude for sewing up neck wounds; cop Ray Liotta, transporting a convicted killer (Jake Busey, aping dad Gary’s hammy snarl) to prison; sexy party girl Amanda Peet; creepy motel clerk John Hawkes; white-trash newlyweds Clea DuVall and William Lee Scott; mild-mannered family man John C. McGinley and his young son; and vain movie star Rebecca DeMornay.
The characters barely have time to retire to their $30-per-night rooms before Cusack discovers the decapitated head of one member bouncing around a clothes dryer. Soon more guests are found brutally murdered with the killer’s calling card left at every scene. Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, a psychiatrist (Alfred Molina) tries to persuade a judge during an emergency midnight hearing to stay the execution of his mass-murderer client (Taylor Pruitt Vince, essaying the 634th psycho killer role of his career). What does any of this have to do with the carnage at the motel? That’s what gives Identity its reason for being, since there’s little doubt the plot twist is what possessed Columbia to green light this project.
I won’t give away the thread that connects Identity’s dual plots (the TV spots do a good job of that). But I have to admit that it left me frustrated and even angry. What the plot twist does is render everything that happens in Identity’s final act irrelevant, leaving me with no reason to care about the killer’s identity, his motive, or what characters survived or died. Casting John Cusack as the protagonist in a murder mystery is a masterstroke, since one immediately identifies with his wise Everyman. However, by the end of this film, we learn that not only is nothing the way it seems, but that none of it matters. I was wishing I had never gotten involved in the first place.
If not for Cooney’s blasted storyline twist, I’d recommend Identity. It’s a workmanlike thriller with a better-than-average cast and an intriguing mystery. But the twist doesn’t work. If I’m going to invest time and brainpower and money caring about characters in a story, I had better not discover that the storytellers care less about them than I do.
(Running time 1:29, rated R)
Grade D+
This article appears in May 1-7, 2003.
