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The screenplay by Deborah Kaplan, Harry Elfont (the team behind Surviving Christmas and The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas) and newbie Adam Sztykiel doesn't completely destroy a workable premise -- the scribes are repeatedly bailed out by the likable cast -- but comic desperation can be seen at alarmingly frequent intervals. The fellating-female-bobblehead gag was handled far more wittily in Forgetting Sarah Marshall (is this 2008's unexpected movie trend?), while other dim comic bits include such Hail Mary desperation passes as Hannah's grandmother mistaking glow-in-the-dark anal beads for a necklace (and of course wearing them throughout the film) and a Scottish relative's name, Athol, being misunderstood by the Americans as -- well, take a guess.
Great. Meet the Parents was followed by Meet the Fockers, so it stands to reason that Made of Honor will be followed by Meet the Athols. I can hardly wait.
IF THERE'S ONE thing that Tom Cruise proved with his race-car lovefest Days of Thunder, it's that it can be dangerous for filmmakers to lovingly place their hobbies right up there on the big screen for all to see. The latest case in point is Redbelt, writer-director David Mamet's salute to jiu-jitsu.
Mamet, a real-life practitioner of the martial art, has cobbled together a samurai flick, a sports yarn and a con game (his specialty) in order to pay service to this noble undertaking. The result is as schizophrenic as any movie certain to open in 2008, as an interesting character study finally sinks under the weight of the plot's predictable twists as well as a climactic fight so absurd, it makes the matches between Rocky Balboa and Ivan Drago seem as realistic as the real-life Ali-Foreman championship bout.
The fine actor Chiwetel Ejiofor stars in the leading role of jiu-jitsu instructor Mike Terry, who teaches both cops and citizens alike in his Los Angeles studio. Presented as a cross between Jesus Christ, Mahatma Gandhi and Mr. Miyagi, Mike prizes honor above all else, and he refuses to enter martial arts competitions because he feels they're degrading. But his trusting nature proves to be a detriment to both himself and his friends, as he's duped by several shady characters (played by Mamet regulars Joe Mantegna and Ricky Jay, among others) and unwittingly dragged into a major sporting event riddled with corruption.
As a gruff movie star, Tim Allen lands the first interesting role of his 14-year screen career (the animated Buzz Lightyear obviously excepted), and the movie could have used more of him. Likewise, there's an interesting relationship that's tentatively explored between Mike and a skittish lawyer (Emily Mortimer) who's afraid of men, and further development would have been appreciated. Instead, everything potentially interesting comes to a grinding halt for a nonsensical conclusion in which Mike is determined to let the world know that -- now here's a shocker -- sports competitions are often rigged. (Say it ain't so, Joe!) This mission of morality naturally involves a climactic tussle between Mike and the evil, sneering champion, but the only thing that truly gets bloodied is Mamet's resume.
IN LAST WEEK'S Creative Loafing, I gave a positive, 3-star review to Deception. To clarify, that's the other Deception, the 1946 melodrama that's included in a recent Bette Davis DVD box set. This Deception (no relation) doesn't merit even half that rating.
It's hard to believe a movie starring Hugh Jackman and Ewan McGregor, two impossibly charismatic actors, could be so dull, but the evidence is right here. McGregor stars as Jonathan McQuarry, a meek accountant who has no fun until a lawyer named Wyatt Bose (Jackman) swoops down like a slumming deus ex machina and introduces his new pal to the pleasures of pot, nightclubs and mixed doubles tennis matches. Just before Wyatt leaves town for a lengthy business trip, he "accidentally" switches cell phones with Jonathan; soon, the virginal numbers cruncher is receiving phone calls during which sexy female voices merely whisper, "Are you free tonight?"
Passing himself off as Wyatt, Jonathan soon discovers an anonymous sex club in which the members all turn out to be Wall Street movers and shakers. Jonathan enjoys the loveless huffing and puffing until he meets and falls for a mysterious member known only as S (Michelle Williams). Before long, the hapless Jonathan discovers that he's the victim of a major -- wait, let me check the title again -- deception.
Since this is a costly studio project subject to MPAA approval (and we know what those prudes think about s-e-x), viewers looking for some steamy stimulation will soon discover they're not getting Shortbus as much as they're getting the short end of the stick. Indeed, the sex club eventually turns out to be so irrelevant to the plot that the characters might as well have belonged to the Wine of the Month Club or Oprah's Book Club instead. Ultimately, the movie packs less erotic heat than even Horton Hears a Who! or Young@Heart.