Swordfish
Summer's here and the time is right for dancin' in the streets. Based on what I've just seen, I'd just as soon lie down smack in the middle of Broadway if Summer is going to be one "Swordfish" after another. It seems we're in the middle of a rogue swarm of moovies with no real reason to exist but to let the "stars" cavort from closeup to blowup, spewing vapid dialogue that wouldn't pass muster at most high school drama contests. Leading the charge toward the Solstice is "Swordfish", with John Travolta, Halle Berry, Hugh Jackman and Don Cheadle. Written (?) by Skip Woods, directed by Dominic Sena. MPAA rating R for violence, language, sexuality and some nudity. Run time 100 minutes.
There is a long-standing tradition in Hollywood of villainous geniuses that are sooo happy to wreak havoc and chaos in the name of stupendous profit and global conquest that you just have to love them. To allow John Travolta to think he can so much as apply warm Brasso to the late Gert Frobe's happy Goldfinger countenance is to succumb to the worst kind of consumer amnesia. We are being ripped off big time, and we're paying happily for the privilege. In the first few minutes of "Swordfish", John Travolta, as uber-villian Gabriel Shear, informs us that most moovies are poorly written, poorly executed pieces of crap. Who knew he was trying to warn us? What's that, Lassie? - Timmie's stuck in the multiplex?
"Swordfish" is another of those moovies where implausible characters do the poorly-written impossible with the help of bad science, computers that act like video games, interrupted only occasionally by gratuitous mayhem meted out with complete impunity and the odd richter-scale blast of oh-so-subtle nudity. I'm surprised they don't accent plot points with flash cards.
To watch Hugh Jackman, who under normal circumstances at least seems to be a fairly capable actor, pound on a laptop computer in an under-the-gun effort to hack into some distant computer is to allow any puny fantasy to interrupt the laws of the physical universe, to say nothing of the moviegoer's collective intelligence. If he's banging out code, I'm the Queen of England. (Requests for Royal favors must be submitted in triplicate, please.)
Ex-Sweathog Vinnie Travolta has the on-screen presence of a bloated Jerry Lewis clone, and sports a haircut that looks as though he's been the target of a Euro-nihilist hostile makeover. This, we soon discover, is to make up for the fact that his character has no depth.
Given just the teensiest bit of direction and subtlety, this moovie would have had pretty good potential, but "Swordfish" winds up as a textbook example of how to market to a less than discriminating moovie-hungry public - blow stuff up, drive exotic cars through city streets with your guns blazing, throw in a helicopter or two and just for good measure, take a flat-footed look at Halle Berry's much-overrated mams. Completely laughable and subtle as a heart attack. On the other hand, if that's your idea of a good moovie, you're home, baby.
Home is where I'll stay next time "Swordfish" is on the menu. One cow for pure nerve.
There is a long-standing tradition in Hollywood of villainous geniuses that are sooo happy to wreak havoc and chaos in the name of stupendous profit and global conquest that you just have to love them. To allow John Travolta to think he can so much as apply warm Brasso to the late Gert Frobe's happy Goldfinger countenance is to succumb to the worst kind of consumer amnesia. We are being ripped off big time, and we're paying happily for the privilege. In the first few minutes of "Swordfish", John Travolta, as uber-villian Gabriel Shear, informs us that most moovies are poorly written, poorly executed pieces of crap. Who knew he was trying to warn us? What's that, Lassie? - Timmie's stuck in the multiplex?
"Swordfish" is another of those moovies where implausible characters do the poorly-written impossible with the help of bad science, computers that act like video games, interrupted only occasionally by gratuitous mayhem meted out with complete impunity and the odd richter-scale blast of oh-so-subtle nudity. I'm surprised they don't accent plot points with flash cards.
To watch Hugh Jackman, who under normal circumstances at least seems to be a fairly capable actor, pound on a laptop computer in an under-the-gun effort to hack into some distant computer is to allow any puny fantasy to interrupt the laws of the physical universe, to say nothing of the moviegoer's collective intelligence. If he's banging out code, I'm the Queen of England. (Requests for Royal favors must be submitted in triplicate, please.)
Ex-Sweathog Vinnie Travolta has the on-screen presence of a bloated Jerry Lewis clone, and sports a haircut that looks as though he's been the target of a Euro-nihilist hostile makeover. This, we soon discover, is to make up for the fact that his character has no depth.
Given just the teensiest bit of direction and subtlety, this moovie would have had pretty good potential, but "Swordfish" winds up as a textbook example of how to market to a less than discriminating moovie-hungry public - blow stuff up, drive exotic cars through city streets with your guns blazing, throw in a helicopter or two and just for good measure, take a flat-footed look at Halle Berry's much-overrated mams. Completely laughable and subtle as a heart attack. On the other hand, if that's your idea of a good moovie, you're home, baby.
Home is where I'll stay next time "Swordfish" is on the menu. One cow for pure nerve.
