Guess Who’s predictable

Guess Who (2005)
Sony Pictures presents a Kevin Rodney Sullivan film, starring Bernie Mac and Ashton Kutcher. Written by David Ronn, Jay Scherick and Peter Tolan and based on a movie written by William Rose. 115m. PG-13 for sex-related humor.

1.5 stars

In 1958, the Gallup Organization found that four percent of white America approved of interracial marriage. By the summer of 1967, the United States Supreme Court invalidated all state laws barring interracial couplings and by December, “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner,” was exploring the same topic in theaters.

Two years ago, Gallup went back and asked the question again; this time 70 percent of all Americans approved of such unions. What was once outlawed, then disapproved of, has now become socially acceptable.

That’s why it makes little, if any, sense to visit the topic for the quasi-comedy “Guess Who,” where roles have been reversed. An affluent black family living in a suburb of New Jersey is about to meet their future son-in-law, without being told the young executive is Caucasian.

While the pigment color of stock broker Simon (Ashton Kutcher) shouldn’t matter to his girlfriend’s father Percy (Bernie Mac), it does only because the craggy loan officer makes it an issue. In a move that echoes Ben Stiller’s struggles to ingratiate himself with the potential in-laws in “Meet the Parents,” Simon gets off on the wrong foot by exaggerating a portion of his life.

Some trifling details can be covered with an apology; but another - a cover-up of a revelation that Simon has just quit his lucrative job and has no contingency plan - merits serious groveling.

Here’s where the film did its bait and switch; it teased audiences into theaters with two B-list stars known for comedic ventures and then saddled us with a drama instead. Moments that are supposed to be playing for laughs, like when Percy tempts Simon to recite racist jokes at the dinner table, are actually quite tense.

It’s unfair, really, for a boyfriend to be subjected to such rigorous examination. Distrust runs rampant, as well. Percy won’t let Simon sleep alone for fear of the young man “violating” his daughter. This action is decidedly nearsighted, however, because Simon and girlfriend Theresa already live together in a New York City loft.

So the name of the game is actually intimidation. Percy steps outside the normal boundaries and tries to find something to dislike about Simon - other than the color of his skin - so that he doesn’t have to admit his reverse racism. What happened to the general guidelines, where parents merely looked for a partner that would be a good provider and good compliment to their offspring?

When the lies unravel from both Percy and Simon, both Percy’s wife and his daughter flock to an impromptu support group that seems lifted from hell’s version of “Waiting to Exhale.” Here single, overweight, unattractive women make summary judgments about men and give terrible relationship advice. Their counsel? Wait for the men to grovel publicly for their girls. I think we’ve just figured out why so many of these women are unattached.

Since the idea of decrying a mixed race marriage is the source for laughter these days, I wonder if we’ll see a comedy about gay marriages in 35 years. According to Gallup, less than half of America is in favor of giving homosexual unions the same rights as traditional marriages.

A humorist once told me that the formula for comedy “is pain over time. That operation that you had or the car crash you survived - you talk about those things a year after they happen and they’re funny.”

And that’s what “Guess Who” was shooting for, until they decided to hijack their laughs and make it a message film instead. By the film’s conclusion, Percy is the hero, uniting two lovers who let their own insecurities talk more than their hearts.

But that’s to be expected. With just an estimated 20 minutes left in the film, the young couple hadn’t had their “predictable misunderstanding that leads to a fight before the inevitable reunion” moment yet. And since this movie had already borrowed ideas from several films before it, it would have been illogical to see it actually use its imagination for once.

That old, familiar “ring”

The Ring Two (2005)
DreamWorks SKG presents a Hideo Nakata film, starring Naomi Watts and David Dorfman. Written by Ehren Kruger. Based on a novel by Koji Suzuki and a film by Hiroshi Takahashi. 111m. Rated PG-13 for violence/terror, disturbing images, thematic elements and some language.

2 stars

I once heard that any film that clears $100 million in profits automatically gets its sequel greenlighted. Although I believe that axiom to be untrue, I’m certain studios would foist a “Titanic 2” on theatergoers if they could just convince us the ship didn’t really sink.

Rachel Keller (Naomi Watts) thought her troubles were over when she moved from Seattle to Astoria, a change of scenery precipitated by her run-in with a videotape that supposedly kills people. Although audiences were certain that Keller had dispatched the evil Samara (Kelly Stables) and destroyed the last remaining copy of the tape...well, this is a sequel after all.

Rachel enlists at the Daily Astorian, whose hum-drum reporting is upended when there’s a homicide locally involving two teenagers. Soon Rachel is piecing together clues that lead to one conclusion: Samara has come back and is targeting Rachel and her son, Aidan (David Dorfman).

When Aidan exhibits symptoms of hypothermia, his mother races to find a psychiatric patient (Sissy Spacek) who may be able to uncover the mystery behind Samara’s supernatural powers.

While the first film sent chills coursing across the epidermis of even the most cynical critics, this film rings much more hollow. The premise of the original film was decidedly creepy. What was the genesis for an omniscient force that could foreshadow your date of death with a eerie croak?

In “The Ring Two,” there are no such threats. I would have loved to see this movie become Keller’s singular race to destroy copies of the underground film while college kids shared it over peer-to-peer networks. It could be “Outbreak”-meets-“The Blair Witch Project,” an admittedly silly affair. But it would have entertained more thoroughly than this film, which I can only deduce was made to ensure Dreamworks’ continued profitability.

Instead of being terrorized, audience members were laughing during one of the film’s intended tense interludes. The first film had the advantage of the unknown, scaring its audiences about what “it” could be. Now that we’ve been clued in that the evil force is a little girl - and she’s been defeated before - the filmmakers are forced to manufacture the tension, instead of just riding off of it.

This problem isn’t relegated singularly to “The Ring,” however. I’m certain that sequels of “The Sixth Sense” and “The Grudge,” two horror films that banked on a similar fear of the unknown, would befall similar fates. But that’s hardly consolation to fans of the original, who expected the same fright-night at the theaters. Instead, they’re handed lukewarm conflict spiced with sudden musical stingers and asked to be scared.

I’ve often said horror films give up the goods too easily. Although it has its own deficiencies, Jacques Tourneur’s “Cat People” (1942) excelled at scaring audiences by creating a creature who was largely unseen. It’s a pattern not often followed these days; a little more mystery in 2003’s “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” would have certainly helped matters, for example.

Mostly I’m encouraged by a strong performance by Dorfman, a 12-year-old who is doing for horror what his pre-teen counterpart, Dakota Fanning, is doing for drama. He’s remarkably adept at portraying true terror; his extended role in this film keeps the conflict, no matter how small, viable. Now that we’ve been subjected to a warmed-over sequel and Dreamworks has purloined our pay opening weekend, we can put “The Ring” series behind us like the DVD has eclipsed the videotape. That is, of course, unless Samara is able to find ways to digitally reproduce herself. Oh, the terror.

When A-lists collide

Be Cool (2005)
MGM presents a F. Gary Gray film, starring John Travolta and Uma Thurman. Written by Peter Steinfeld. Based on a book by Elmore Leonard. 114m. PG-13 for violence, sensuality and language including sexual references.

1.5 stars

The most irritating facet of the “Be Cool” promotional blitzkrieg is that it concentrated solely on who was in the movie, not what it could be about. If merit was given singularly on star-power alone, “Be Cool” would be considered sacrosanct, an A-list “Citizen Kane.” To paraphrase Aristotle, the activity of entertainment may occupy an entire lifetime, but 12 stars does not a movie make.

Is it John Travolta, or his character Chili Palmer, speaking in the opening when he says, “I got hustled into doing a sequel”? A full decade after the multi-charactered “Get Shorty,” Palmer is back as a Miami-based loan shark looking for action in the music business.

After the death of his friend Tommy (James Woods), Chili looks to unite with Tommy’s ex-wife, Edie (Uma Thurman) to produce an album from Tommy’s teen-age lover, Linda (Christina Milan). Plans hit a roadblock when producer Sin (Cedric the Entertainer) demands a $300,000 debt of Tommy’s from Edie. There’s another problem: Linda is under contract to both faux-gangbanger Raji (Vince Vaughn) - usually accompanied by his muscle Elliot (The Rock) - and record executive Nick Carr (Harvey Keitel). There’s also some blood-thirsty Russians in the mix here somewhere.

The movie banks on a “wink, wink, nudge, nudge” attack of self-referential moments from not only its prequel but from other movies and real lives. After Tommy is gunned down, Chili wryly adds over his still-warm body, “You can’t have a movie where somebody dies in the first scene.” Audiences are supposed to laugh, but no one did at my screening. That’s because we don’t want our characters to be breaking down the fourth wall and joining us in the jokes. We want them to entertain us and never suggest we can’t enjoy dalliances in escapism without being reminded that we’re doing so.

Similarly, after mugging for the camera in a sub-plot involving Edie’s former life as an Aerosmith laundry maiden, band frontman Steven Tyler says, “I’m not one of those singers who shows up in movies.” But didn’t I see Tyler jarringly out-of-place in “The Polar Express”? It’s a stupid joke, that’s supposed to be funny because the screenwriters want you to believe the actors are in on the joke. They know they’re in a movie, so we can laugh at jokes about being in the movies they’re not supposed to be acknowledging. Oh, my head is starting to hurt.

Lacking a main element of creating an enjoyable story, “Be Cool” shoots itself in the foot by reminding audiences of better films. John Travolta, Uma Thurman and Harvey Keitel all appeared together in the 1990s classic, “Pulp Fiction.”

One step further, Thurman’s character in “Pulp Fiction” had a convertible. One more step, Travolta and Thurman danced together at a 1950s-themed cafe. Finally, Travolta is probably best known for his role in “Saturday Night Fever,” where he tried to make a living from dance contests.

This is not the stuff of homage; it’s the source content for bad parody. And while it’d be easy to blame the actors for the ultimate failure of the overall piece, the blame rests solely on the original material.

While Travolta has turned in some laughable performances, he knows how to inhabit Chili Palmer. Unfortunately, Palmer is resigned to playing out one scene after another, all of which have a unifying arc but none of which lead you to any satisfying conclusions.

The actors who are trying the hardest are those with the most left to prove. The Rock (nee Dwayne Johnson) still bears the stigma of wrestling entertainment huckster. In “Be Cool,” he’s a bodyguard who waits for his turn on the silver screen. The film drops several non-subtle references to his homosexuality, which Elliot either pretends not to acknowledge or is the last one in this universe to realize his disposition.

Yet The Rock ultimately feels like a miscast because he comes with such an intricate backstory. Leaking machismo from every orifice, The Rock seems more like someone producers would hire if they weren’t looking to convince anyone that he was really soliciting sex from his own gender. And the large, detailed Samoan tattoo that runs across his left chest isn’t helping matters either.

Then there’s Andre 3000 (nee Andre Benjamin), one-half of the rap group Outkast, whose character’s thug credentials come up invalid. He’s the troubled cousin of Sin’s wife, employed by the record producer out of a call for nepotism, not for any legitimate scare tactic. He’s outlandish, but in a room full of A-listers just reciting their lines, Andre is a standout.

Had this movie played out as a chilling thriller instead of a soft-pedal comedy, I think we would have had something. Instead we have drivel, cast off as entertainment and something audiences are bound to forget six months after they’ve seen it.

Constantine (2005)

Warner Bros. presents a Francis Lawrence film, starring Keanu Reeves and Rachel Weisz. Written by Kevin Brodbin and Frank A. Cappello. Based on the DC/Vertigo comic “Hellblazer” by Jamie Delano and Garth Ennis. 121m. R for violence and demonic images.

3 stars

What I remember most from reading Michael Chabon’s fictional tome on the comic book business, “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay,” is that most of the good superhero attributes have already been assigned.

But for their DC/Vertigo comic “Hellblazer,” creators Jamie Delano and Garth Ennis didn’t just think outside the box, they laced that receptacle with TNT and hit the switch. Their central protagonist is a self-serving anti-hero attempting to buy his way into heaven by doing God’s will.

Now the graphic novel has made its way to the big screen as “Constantine,” a slick tale of one man’s uphill battle for redemption. Keanu Reeves plays John Constantine, who as a young boy was tortured by the ability to see half-breed angels and demons who roam the Earth. As Constantine explains, the mutants are emissaries from heaven and hell helping to influence a large wager between God and the devil for souls.

Hoping to escape a life-long curse, the teen-age Constantine kills himself, sealing his fate in hell for eternity. But he’s resuscitated by emergency services personnel, dooming him to roam the earth and confront the half-breeds again.

Certain of his fate to revisit Hades upon his eventual demise, Constantine enlists as an unofficial mercenary for God in hopes of securing a more pleasant after-life. But he’s taunted by God’s earthly liaison, Gabriel (Tilda Swinton), who assures him his one-man revolution is insignificant. Constantine lacks purity of faith, believing in God’s existence only because he has been handed proof.

Meanwhile, Gabriel’s evil counterpart, Balthazar (musician Gavin Rossdale), eagerly waits for Constantine’s cancerous tumors to stifle his life essence and return him to hell. Just as Constantine starts to feel sorry for himself, he encounters the mysterious Angela Dodson (Rachel Weisz), a police officer whose keen psychic abilities are aggressively sought by the demon realm.

While some critics have taken it to task for being muddy and oftentimes unnecessarily confusing, “Constantine” producers were insistent they weren’t trying to create full comprehension. The movie tantalizes, hinting at greater things it hasn’t the time to completely explain, an attribute which can annoy audiences as easily as it could draw them in to the story. It’s an effect also used in Reeves’ best known works: “The Matrix” series. I’m certain that my first viewing of “Constantine” was for pure entertainment, but subsequent watches will be to decode the more profound questions waiting.

I enjoyed it, finding the vague story elements to be similar in form to classics in my favorite genre, film noir. Director Francis Lawrence is apparently a fan as well, adopting a tone and style that, with Reeves attached, play out as a “Neo-noir” (sorry, I just could not resist). From the rain-soaked streets of Los Angeles to the dimly lit apartment of our anti-hero, “Constantine” is the sort of film, in looks, I’ve been waiting to see again since “Dark City.” Its expressionistic lighting is just glee-inducing for fans of 1940s fare.

And although Sting was the inspiration for Constantine’s look in the comic realm, Reeves seems like an appropriate choice for his ability to express both seriousness and charisma. His range isn’t overwhelming; in fact, several lines or expressions seem cribbed from “The Matrix.” But it’s believable to audiences that Reeves, as Constantine, lives immersed in giant contradictions. The mercenary doesn’t want to die again before he can almost ensure entrance to heaven, but is almost hopelessly addicted to cigarettes for instance.

The entire assortment of goodies, including some ghastly digital interpretations of hell, makes “Constantine” a surprisingly enjoyable affair. I’ll admit I skipped it on its opening weekend because it looked foul, opting instead for the lighter, more responsible “Because of Winn-Dixie.” Now it comes with my blessing.