Ghost Rider
For the love of Crom Dubh, why did I watch
another Nicholas Cage movie?
I really had every intention of passing over this. I'll admit, I was drawn to it
out of a morbid sense of curiosity. However I've made a resolution to skip over
films I was predisposed to hate, no matter how tempting it would be to tear them
a new'un.
Imagine my shock when both Dr. Freex
and Ken Begg gave the film favorable
notice. Now, I wasn't ever a Marvel fan (no slight, just more of a DC nerd) so I
didn't reckon I'd enjoy the film as much as them. But these two are the cream of
a small crop of film reviewers I hugely admire. As a writer I don't consider
myself worthy to polish their boots, so if they found 'Rider' a pleasant
surprise, well that was good enough for me.
Well guys, I hope you'll forgive my impudence, but what in the hell did you see in this film?
The story is as trite as it is pointless. Young struggling carny Johnny Blaze discovers that his father is dying of cancer. A "mysterious" stranger approaches the lad and offers to heal his father in exchange for the boy's soul. (I assume Satan singled him out for target simply for his ironic name alone.) The elder gear head does experience a miraculous recovery but due to some demonic interference with his stunt act, dies the next day. This little shock is so hugely telegraphed it made me consider buying stock in Western Union. (It's far from an isolated incident; this script predictable enough that you could basically write it yourself after seeing the trailer.) Leaving his heartbreak behind, John grew up, gained an affected Memphis accent, and as part of his Faustian bargain lost the ability to emote without squinting. Now a world famous and successful carny, when he's not performing (and flubbing) death-defying stunts, he's watching tv (Shouldn't there be a law that you can't use clips from a Jacques Tourneur film in crap like this?) eating Doritos, and waiting around for Lord Gooseberry to collect on his bargain.
Now you might get the idea that this film posses some semblance of cheesy mirth, but frankly the whole thing flounces around like it wants to be taken seriously. It's so hokey and over dramatic that it's simply sad, not laughable. If it shot for tongue in cheek, it missed, caught its own ricochet, and dropped with a bullet in the brainpan. Even straight stabs at humor fall flatter than an anorexic Japanese underwear model. The philosophy of scene construction seems to be "don't ever say anything original when you can send a proven cliché in it's stead; don't ever speak it when you can growl".
Speaking of spirits that mutter and peep,
Nick Cage is as terrible as always, and let's face it, so enamored with himself
that he'll never get a lick better. Peter Fonda's hammy turn as Ol' Scratch
lacks any semblance of subtly, substance or whimsy. Again, this stems as much
from a dearth of writing as Fonda's indifference. I suppose it's pissing in the
wind to hope that screenwriters would pick up a copy of Milton, but they could
at least watch that one 'Twilight Zone' with Burgess Meredith and the printing
press. You're attempting to portray the most perfect angel ever created, so
close to the Most High his pride sunk him to the depths of wretchedness. For
corn's sakes, there is no reason for this character to ever be so damn banal!
Peter is just in a glorified cameo anyway; a diablos ex machina to setup Nick's
battle with his spawn. Again, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree as Wes
Bentley plays Blackheart (*snicker*) as yet another friggin Anne Rice refuge.
With their precious posing and black eyeliner he and his minions carry all the
weight and menace of a 'My Chemical Romance' cover band.
Despite any emotional hand wringing, Eva Mendes is envisioned as eye candy, and
never puts much effort to rise above this. She's a pretty girl wandering around
reading lines, never a character.
Now I could overlook bad performances and
even lousy plotting under certain circumstances. This is supposed to be a
knockdown action film with some sensational bits of horror to add flavor, not
'The Godfather'. Other movies like 'The Mummy' made this combo work very well.
However, even ignoring such pesky bits such as immensely superior actors and
writing, films like 'Mummy' have a little thing called direction going for them.
Mark Stuart Johnson, of 'Daredevil' and 'Jack Frost' (the Keaton one, not the
killer rapist snowman one) fame is as visually tone-deaf as always. Entrances
are so over dramatic as to be ludicrous (Slow motion on the love interest? Is it
1943 already?) His vision is choppy and muddled, and his climaxes stall like a
Chevy Nova.
And that is what truly damns 'Rider' to
Hell. It commits the mortal sin of cinema.
It's boring!
Despite any pretensions to character development, we came here to see some ghost
riding, not Nicky's dead-on chimp impression. (Oh, I'm sorry, is he trying to do
Elvis?) The Rider roasts a punk in one scene. Then more puttering around until
the cops arrest him for the burning-thing.
Uh-huh, and why would the police suspect a motorcycle stunt man of possessing
the preternatural ability of melting people from the inside out? (The find the
scorched plate from his bike in the path of destruction, which is apparently,
much more telling than all the other random rubble in the street. Oh well, IITS.
:-)
Then the Rider takes on an entire cell full of hardened thugs, and how's this
for directorial flourish, WE DON'T SEE THE FIGHT!
As for his main mission, the Rider's winning every confrontation seems
contingent on demons forgetting who he is. ("You'll never defeat me puny
mortal. Whaaaa? You can turn into a burny-skull? But this is
unprecedented?")
Speaking of the Rider himself, there are
plenty of hints of the good film this could have been if those who made it
weren't so unutterably lazy.
Sam Elliott is always fun, though it might have been nice to actually see him in
action. (Johnson apparently considers posing his players like action figures to
be drama enough.)
The pittance of scenes portraying Johnny's accursed travails are almost worth
checking out the film for. Though otherwise thoroughly forgettable, this flick
might serve to rebuff those who claimed cgi could never replace human actors.
('Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within' is often cited as proof of this. Uh, no.
That film flopped because it was dull, tedious crap.) The Rider's hellish,
cackling visage has more personality than anyone else in the film. Then again,
in this production that's something of a stacked deck. There are exactly three
things in this movie that can carry a scene; a cgi skull, and Eva Mendes'
breasts.
There is also some good use of music, such as the highly appropriate 'Ghost Riders'. (Though they had to go with some crappy techno remix.) The main opening theme is also pretty nice, with some cute mandolin work. Also...
...no wait, that's all I like about this movie.
2.5
July 15, 2007