Street Kings on Blu-ray

Street Kings is a pungent bouquet of corruption, violence, multi-ethnic mayhem, macho glee laced with macho angst, and fluorescently obscene dialogue from the mind of James Ellroy. Its hero, though he’d scarcely consent to be called one, is L.A. police detective Tom Ludlow (Keanu Reeves), for whom life is a wound that won’t heal and dealing out retribution to scumbags is the ongoing treatment. Ludlow’s the star player–”the tip of the [expletive] spear”–on a team of detectives headed by Capt. Jack Wander (Forest Whitaker). Coach Wander relies on his boys to keep breaking lurid cases, usually through deeply darkside underground work, and raising his profile with the media and the department.

In pursuit of these goals, nothing is forbidden except failure, and the truth is what you make it look like. This is familiar Ellroy territory, most effectively translated to the screen in L.A. Confidential (which should have won the 1997 Oscar, and would have if Titanic hadn’t launched that year). If you know Ellroy’s ground game, you can pretty much guess where Street Kings is going, and where it’s been. Still, the twists and torques of its urban road-rage course maintain the centrifugal force needed to hold us in our seats (a tactical highlight: refrigerator adapted as rolling barricade), and the movie keeps bopping us with oddball casting coups: comic Jay Mohr and Northern Exposure/Sex and the City veteran John Corbett as two members of Coach Warden’s gonzo detective squad; Cedric the Entertainer doing a nicely nuanced turn as a street creature; Hugh Laurie doing a less-hyper version of House, if House worked Internal Affairs.

The problem is that director David Ayer keeps everything intense. Dialogues are shot too close-up, line readings are too strident, the action is too nonstop slam. Recall Curtis Hanson’s L.A. Confidential and the mind’s eye summons up a whole spectrum of existence, mood, place, historical period, emotional investment; there’s an amplitude to the picture and the sensibility bringing it to us, something besides the whodunit and the endless rap sheet of nasty what-they-done. Everything in Street Kings is one-note, and with Keanu Reeves playing it implosive and Forest Whitaker locked in crazier-than-an-outhouse-rat mode, that’s no way to stay the course.
By Richard T. Jameson

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Vantage Point on Blu-ray

Vantage Point, which aspires to be a cunningly twisted thriller, comes equipped with plenty of hurtling action, handheld camerawork, what-was-that? editing, and a plot that has multiple, contradictory agendas writhing like a nest of snakes. It’s all set a-boil within a few blocks of a town square in Spain where a U.S. President is targeted for assassination.

Although the movie lasts 90 minutes, the events it depicts are mostly over with in a quarter-hour or so–but seen, rewound, and reseen from half a dozen different (you guessed it) vantage points. The first line in the credits reads “Original Film,” apparently the name of the production company. “Gimmick Movie” would be more accurate; the opening reel, effectively jolting, affords an initial overview of the events through the eyes, lenses, monitors, and dueling sensibilities of a TV news producer (Sigourney Weaver), her activist-minded reporter (Zoe Saldana) and crew.

Everybody’s in Salamanca (actually, Mexico City) for the start of an international conference to reaffirm Arab-Western commitment to the fight against terrorism. Terrorism, of course, sees this as an ideal moment to break out. As gunshots and explosions reduce everything to chaos, the clock is reset to zero and we proceed to revisit the scene as experienced by several Secret Service agents (namely Dennis Quaid and Matthew Fox), an American tourist with camcorder (Forest Whitaker), sundry locals–including three who may be caught up in a love triangle or a conspiracy or both–and even the President himself (William Hurt).

For a while, this is mildly diverting: that guy, or that gesture, so sinister when glimpsed across the plaza in one run-through, now appears harmless in close-up–or vice versa. But there’s no real ambiguity (so stop with the careless comparisons to Kurosawa’s Rashomon)–this is a shell game in which the peas aren’t worth tracking. Despite decent actors, the characters might as well be holograms (although poor Forest Whitaker is saddled with “motivation” of surpassing sappiness), and the casting telegraphs several twists: one redoubtable good guy practically gives a wink-wink, nudge-nudge that he’s really bad, etc.

The movie declines to specify which nutjob philosophy the terrorists espouse, and their numbers are multi-ethnic. There’s also a laborious suggestion that they have bloodthirsty, reactionary counterparts among the President’s inner circle, which perhaps qualifies as redeeming socio-political comment and prompts a meaningless declaration of deep meaning from the Prez. The whole megilleh finally comes down to an extended car chase through impassably claustrophobic streets that would mark a lurch into unintentional self-parody–if only that point hadn’t been passed a couple of rewinds earlier.
by Richard T. Jameson

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