If
you remember the mid-1990s, you’ll remember a slew of sub-Tarantino
crime movies that would clog up cinemas and video shelves. Inspired
by Reservoir Dogs and, more directly, Pulp
Fiction, this infestation of movies – sometimes
made by Tarantino associates, sometimes written and / or directed
Tarantino himself, often entirely unrelated – piled on what
rapidly became a series of clichés – would be snappy
dialogue, pop culture references, a cool soundtrack, ‘interesting’
casting. A few were good; most were bad.It was a pretty dire time
generally.
Catch .44’s director Aaron Harvey has decided
to revive this painfully self-conscious era of movie making with
all the finesse of an elephant painting pictures with its trunk.
Rarely have I seen a film so misguidedly pleased with itself as
this, as it trots out every hackneyed, overused, determinedly
cool trick in the book. A story told in flashbacks? Check. Cult
icons crow barred into the story? Check. Freeze-frame and character
names flashed up on screen? Check. Ironic choice of soundtrack
songs? Check. End results an annoying piece of shit? Double check.
The film’s non-story sees three of the most unconvincing
female criminals in film history (Malin Akerman, Nikki Reed and
Deborah Ann Woll) sent to intercept a drug deal, only to find
themselves in a gun battle that ends with a pile of dead bodies
and a Mexican stand-off that also involves Forest Whitaker as
a multi-accented, thinly drawn killer who’s motives fall
apart with the most cursory examination. Bruce Willis sleepwalks
through his role as the crime lord behind the set-up and Brad
Dourif turns up in a part that exists solely to get Brad Dourif’s
name in the credits.
While
I suspect that members of Steps would make for more convincing
gun-totin’ female hard cases than Akerman, Woll and Reed,
it’s hard to blame this simply on the actresses –
bad as they are. I doubt even Pam Grier or Cheri Caffaro could
do much with the lousy dialogue these girls are saddled with.
Whitaker hams it up in a role that makes no sense, and Willis
seems bored, unimpressed even with the self-referential nature
of a film where the female characters at one point play Willis’
80’s album The Return of Bruno.
It’s true that Harvey has some impressively slick visuals
here – but they are all direct imitations of scenes from
other films. I imagine he spent a lot of time watching other movies,
noting camera angles and movements, editing styles and dialogue
delivery (in the latter case, taking away only the painfully misguided
idea that having people say ‘fuck’ continually makes
them sound tough) before slavishly copying them. On a talent level,
that places him somewhere between a Chinese counterfeiter and
a parrot.
Catch .44 is one of those rare films that doesn’t
simply bore, offend or annoy – it actually angers. I never
thought I could say this about a movie that opens with Sweet’s
Fox on the Run – but this is entirely, totally, utterly
worthless.
If
you remember the mid-1990s, you’ll remember a slew of sub-Tarantino
crime movies that would clog up cinemas and video shelves. Inspired
by Reservoir Dogs and, more directly, Pulp
Fiction, this infestation of movies – sometimes
made by Tarantino associates, sometimes written and / or directed
Tarantino himself, often entirely unrelated – piled on what
rapidly became a series of clichés – would be snappy
dialogue, pop culture references, a cool soundtrack, ‘interesting’
casting. A few were good; most were bad.It was a pretty dire time
generally.
While
I suspect that members of Steps would make for more convincing
gun-totin’ female hard cases than Akerman, Woll and Reed,
it’s hard to blame this simply on the actresses –
bad as they are. I doubt even Pam Grier or Cheri Caffaro could
do much with the lousy dialogue these girls are saddled with.
Whitaker hams it up in a role that makes no sense, and Willis
seems bored, unimpressed even with the self-referential nature
of a film where the female characters at one point play Willis’
80’s album The Return of Bruno.
