Thursday, March 27, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Film: Gerry-pandering Damon, Affleck succumb to hubris in the desert

By Anthony Allison

Hubris is a horrible disease. More alarming than anthrax, more virulent than variola, this cruel scourge often hits onanistic Hollywood folks who seriously think filmgoers are so dumb they'll pay to watch them pull fluff from their narcissistic navels for 100 minutes.

In Gerry, Matt Damon and Casey Affleck take a stroll in the desert and get lost. Days later, one dies--but by then, if you're still awake, you won't care which.

Gus Van Sant's buddy movie is apparently supposed to elicit profound, existential meditations. But Tom Hanks' pal Wilson offered more insights on the meaning of life and the indomitable survival instinct of men (and volleyballs) in Cast Away. The only meaningful message in this willfully slow film, strikingly shot in Death Valley and Northern Nevada, is don't go hiking without proper equipment and water and please stick to the trail, folks.

Affleck and Damon, who share a laughable screenwriting credit with Gus, basically play themselves: hip, flip urbanites (for some unfathomable reason they're both named Gerry) who are literally and figuratively lost in Mother Nature's wilderness, despite their lame attempts to "crowsnest" to high ground for "a mountain-top scoutabout." At one point, the geek Affleck delivers a rambling monologue about a video game that invites the suspicion that Casey's as empty-headed as his character. Thankfully, just when you're wishing this dimwit would go jump off a rock, he does so.

Before Van Sant sold out and went Hollywood (To Die For, Good Will Hunting, Finding Forrester), he established his street cred with flawed but beautifully played indie flicks (Drugstore Cowboy, My Own Private Idaho). But his self-indulgent, shot-for-shot remake of Psycho was fair warning that Gus is more interested in his own artistic development than making watchable movies. Gerry is the cruel coup de gr‰ce: A vapid exercise in nothingness that's apt to send even the most avid art-film aficionado rushing gratefully back to the mainstream.

Rock should stick to standup

Chris Rock isn't a victim of hubris. He's suffering from a fatal delusion of grandeur that makes Michael Jackson's wannabe-white-man identity crisis, er, totally pale by comparison. The "SNL" alumnus apparently believes he's Warren Beatty.

Having co-written and starred in Down to Earth, a second-rate remake of Beatty's Heaven Can Wait, Rock now takes a crack at Bulworth, in which writer-producer-director Warren played a politician who becomes wildly popular by talking straight. In Head of State, Rock is an unlikely presidential candidate who--well, you can guess the rest.

Unfortunately there's a key difference between Rock and Beatty. The Oscar-winning multi-hyphenate and former heartthrob not only has wit and political savvy, but knows how to write, act, produce and direct. Rock doesn't.

Yet instead of sticking with what he can do--standup comedy--Chris insists on inflicting unfunny films on hapless audiences. Pootie Tang, an abysmal spinoff from Rock's HBO show, was bad enough. Head of State, Rock's directorial debut, is worse.

There is precisely one mildly amusing gag in this "comedy." Over a sweeping helicopter shot of Mount Rushmore the opening credits roll: "Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, Rudy Giuliani, Joe Lieberman, Bob Dole, Al Gore and Hillary Clinton...are not in this movie." Too bad. Between them, they might've found a gag or two--unlike the actual, embarrassed cast: bemused running mate Bernie Mac, unlikely love interest Tamala Jones, smarmy opponent Nick Searcy, dumbfounded minder Lynn Whitfield, histrionic ex-girlfriend Robin Givens and shamefaced senator James Rebhorn.

With leaden pacing (this directing shit really does take skill, Chris) and a woefully unfunny script (co-written by Rock and Ali LeRoi) the rest is too dismal for words.

Coming soon, film fans: Bonnie and Chris, Splendor in the Rock, The South Central Spring of Mrs. Stone and Ishpebble.