+1+blog.jpg)
reVIEW (21)
CONSTANTINE
Don’t believe the travel brochures.
Hell’s a great place to visit. Really. And you don’t even need a visa, just a container of water and a cat in your lap.
Just take a look at Constantine, a film which kicks off (after some short preliminaries) with an exorcism in a Filipino community in L.A., a sequence designed to firmly establish that this is NOT your father’s Exorcist. No creaky old Max Von Sydow chanting “The power of Christ compels you…” here; in this movie, all you need to smite some demon butt is a mirror and Keanu Reeves.
Based on Hellblazer, the DC comic from its Vertigo line of titles (non-superhero, and geared to a more mature audience), Constantine pretty much captures a certain aspect of the comic: the backstreet, DIY nature of John Constantine’s brand of magic—no chanting, no rituals, and no explanations. Stick your feet (still in their shoes, mind you) in a container of water, and presto, you get to visit Hell. Why? Because it works that way.
Now, in the comic, these little tricks fly because the writers and artists are able to create a world where stuff like this actually makes some strange sort of sense, a world where the bizarre belongs. A world with atmosphere.
Tragically, Francis Lawrence, who directed Constantine, is the kind of music video director who thinks atmosphere is something you see, rather than feel, the kind of music video director who seems to be after the pretty shot, and not much else.*
Take the film’s Hell. It’s got that post-apocalyptic L.A. After the Bomb look, with lots of open-headed CGI nasties scrambling about, but it doesn’t really convey a true sense of the Kingdom of Pain, no brimstone whiff of genuine Hellishness. The Mongolian hordes on a Sunday at Megamall are far more vicious and intimidating. Now that’s what I call “Hell.”
And, granted, the film does have its moments (Constantine battling demon half-breeds in a rain of holy water; the divine Tilda Swinton’s Gabriel getting down to business; Shia LaBeouf‘s Chas, in his final, post-end credits shot), but they’re too few, and too far between, to make any real sort of impact on the whole; a whole that ends up being a badly-paced, plodding affair, with a plot of the connect-the-dots school: bump off minor characters A and B to get major characters C and D to points E and F.
Now, though I’m dead certain there’ll be Hellblazer fans out there who’ll belabor the point that this is not the John Constantine of the comic book, that, Heavens to Murgatroid, Constantine isn’t even American, personally, I think the real problem is more that Constantine wasn’t just turned into any old Yank, he was turned into… duuude… Keanu!
Though I’ve managed to enjoy some films despite his presence (The Matrix, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Dangerous Liaisons), Reeves simply doesn’t have either the acting chops or the gravitas to pull off the complexity of John Constantine, the likeable rogue, the anti-hero scoundrel haunted by far too many ghosts, playing both sides off against the middle, trying to buy his way into Heaven while struggling to keep just one step ahead of the Reaper. None of that is in evidence here. Instead, all he does is smoke, add a husky register to his voice, and look testy and vaguely constipated.
And though Rachel Weisz (of The Mummy films) tries gamely to give dimension to her conflicted Catholic cop Angela Dodson, she suffers, acting opposite the likes of Reeves. Performance-wise, the high points of Constantine are Tilda Swinton (Young Adam, The Deep End), whose androgynous beauty is perfect for Gabriel, and Pruitt Taylor Vince (Identity, S1m0ne) as Father Hennessy.
The rest of the cast are sabotaged, either by a script that leaves their characters underdeveloped and unexplored (like LaBeouf‘s Chas, who comes off as too much the loyal, eager puppy ready to learn), or because they’re forced to act alongside you-know-who.
Then of course, there’s Gavin Rossdale. Casting Bush’s front man as demon half-breed Balthazar might have been a good idea, if Rossdale could actually carry a scene, but there’s just too much of the preening rock star in him; he’s not acting, he’s performing. The confrontation between Constantine and Balthazar towards film’s end is a bizarre moment where the audience is watching the collision of a quasar and a black hole. I have no idea what that is in astronomical terms, but it’s something I don’t care to see again.
And please, don’t get me started on Peter (Spun, Fargo) Stormare’s Devil.
In the end, Constantine isn’t a complete loss. Like I said, it has its moments, and you do get to visit Hell without all the unpleasantness advertised in the brochures.
Just don’t expect too much, and Heavens to Murgatroid, don’t expect Hellblazer.
Do that, and you may actually not regret having seen the film.
* Please don’t think I’m being a snob here. There are video directors out there who understand atmosphere: David Fincher (Fight Club), Spike Jonze (Being John Malkovich), Mark Romanek (One Hour Photo), Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). Lawrence, though…
(Constantine OS courtesy of impawards.com.)
(The above is a slightly altered version of a previously published review entitled “To Hell and Back.”)
CONSTANTINE
Don’t believe the travel brochures.
Hell’s a great place to visit. Really. And you don’t even need a visa, just a container of water and a cat in your lap.
Just take a look at Constantine, a film which kicks off (after some short preliminaries) with an exorcism in a Filipino community in L.A., a sequence designed to firmly establish that this is NOT your father’s Exorcist. No creaky old Max Von Sydow chanting “The power of Christ compels you…” here; in this movie, all you need to smite some demon butt is a mirror and Keanu Reeves.
Based on Hellblazer, the DC comic from its Vertigo line of titles (non-superhero, and geared to a more mature audience), Constantine pretty much captures a certain aspect of the comic: the backstreet, DIY nature of John Constantine’s brand of magic—no chanting, no rituals, and no explanations. Stick your feet (still in their shoes, mind you) in a container of water, and presto, you get to visit Hell. Why? Because it works that way.
Now, in the comic, these little tricks fly because the writers and artists are able to create a world where stuff like this actually makes some strange sort of sense, a world where the bizarre belongs. A world with atmosphere.
Tragically, Francis Lawrence, who directed Constantine, is the kind of music video director who thinks atmosphere is something you see, rather than feel, the kind of music video director who seems to be after the pretty shot, and not much else.*
Take the film’s Hell. It’s got that post-apocalyptic L.A. After the Bomb look, with lots of open-headed CGI nasties scrambling about, but it doesn’t really convey a true sense of the Kingdom of Pain, no brimstone whiff of genuine Hellishness. The Mongolian hordes on a Sunday at Megamall are far more vicious and intimidating. Now that’s what I call “Hell.”
And, granted, the film does have its moments (Constantine battling demon half-breeds in a rain of holy water; the divine Tilda Swinton’s Gabriel getting down to business; Shia LaBeouf‘s Chas, in his final, post-end credits shot), but they’re too few, and too far between, to make any real sort of impact on the whole; a whole that ends up being a badly-paced, plodding affair, with a plot of the connect-the-dots school: bump off minor characters A and B to get major characters C and D to points E and F.
Now, though I’m dead certain there’ll be Hellblazer fans out there who’ll belabor the point that this is not the John Constantine of the comic book, that, Heavens to Murgatroid, Constantine isn’t even American, personally, I think the real problem is more that Constantine wasn’t just turned into any old Yank, he was turned into… duuude… Keanu!
Though I’ve managed to enjoy some films despite his presence (The Matrix, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Dangerous Liaisons), Reeves simply doesn’t have either the acting chops or the gravitas to pull off the complexity of John Constantine, the likeable rogue, the anti-hero scoundrel haunted by far too many ghosts, playing both sides off against the middle, trying to buy his way into Heaven while struggling to keep just one step ahead of the Reaper. None of that is in evidence here. Instead, all he does is smoke, add a husky register to his voice, and look testy and vaguely constipated.
And though Rachel Weisz (of The Mummy films) tries gamely to give dimension to her conflicted Catholic cop Angela Dodson, she suffers, acting opposite the likes of Reeves. Performance-wise, the high points of Constantine are Tilda Swinton (Young Adam, The Deep End), whose androgynous beauty is perfect for Gabriel, and Pruitt Taylor Vince (Identity, S1m0ne) as Father Hennessy.
The rest of the cast are sabotaged, either by a script that leaves their characters underdeveloped and unexplored (like LaBeouf‘s Chas, who comes off as too much the loyal, eager puppy ready to learn), or because they’re forced to act alongside you-know-who.
Then of course, there’s Gavin Rossdale. Casting Bush’s front man as demon half-breed Balthazar might have been a good idea, if Rossdale could actually carry a scene, but there’s just too much of the preening rock star in him; he’s not acting, he’s performing. The confrontation between Constantine and Balthazar towards film’s end is a bizarre moment where the audience is watching the collision of a quasar and a black hole. I have no idea what that is in astronomical terms, but it’s something I don’t care to see again.
And please, don’t get me started on Peter (Spun, Fargo) Stormare’s Devil.
In the end, Constantine isn’t a complete loss. Like I said, it has its moments, and you do get to visit Hell without all the unpleasantness advertised in the brochures.
Just don’t expect too much, and Heavens to Murgatroid, don’t expect Hellblazer.
Do that, and you may actually not regret having seen the film.
* Please don’t think I’m being a snob here. There are video directors out there who understand atmosphere: David Fincher (Fight Club), Spike Jonze (Being John Malkovich), Mark Romanek (One Hour Photo), Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). Lawrence, though…
(Constantine OS courtesy of impawards.com.)
(The above is a slightly altered version of a previously published review entitled “To Hell and Back.”)
No comments:
Post a Comment