It’s hard to replicate the directorial panache, sharp writing and star charisma that made Raiders of the Lost Ark so entertaining, but — God knows — people keep trying.
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| Luke (John Krasinski, center left) and his team — from left, Charlotte (Natalie Portman), Owen (Domhnall Gleeson), Deb (Carmen Ejogo) and Patrick (Laz Alonso) — marvel at what has just been revealed by a particular painting. |
British director Guy Ritchie now has embraced the challenge, and — having done so well with his two Sherlock Holmes entries, his re-booted Man from U.N.C.L.E. and several stylish crime thrillers — hope sprang eternal.
Alas.
On the positive side, star John Krasinski brings a lot to the party: boyish enthusiasm, considerable charm, and a lot of well-timed flair for his character’s snarky running commentary. But co-star Natalie Portman is badly miscast; she has no sense of fun, never seems to know how to look or sound, and spends most of the film being a bitchy pain in the ass.
And while several of the action sequences are audacious and inventively staged, James Vanderbilt’s clumsy script leaves plot holes large enough to swallow the pyramid where our heroes wind up, in the final act.
Ritchie kicks off matters with a bang, as Luke Purdue (Krasinski) cheerfully maneuvers his motorcycle through Bangkok’s busy streets, pointedly ignoring incessant phone calls from somebody named Kasem. He’s then suddenly boxed in by several cars and motorcycles led by the aforementioned Kasem (Steve Tran), who turns out to be a lieutenant in a nasty Thai crime syndicate ... from which Luke has just stolen a painting.
Cue a lively, propulsively staged chase through city streets via car, motorcycle and on foot, as Luke finally eludes his pursuers and hops a train, his movements guided via satellite by colleague Patrick Murphy (Laz Alonso), safely elsewhere. Alas, Luke’s planned train getaway is interrupted by the mysterious Esme (Eiza González), who alsodemands the painting, and is accompanied by her own pet thugs.
Cue an equally inventive skirmish within the train compartment, employing fixtures, cutlery and everything else not nailed down. Luke once again escapes, this time finally reuniting with Patrick and Deb (Carmen Ejogo), the other member of his crew.
They subsequently travel to London, where Luke has a less-than-happy reunion with his sister, Charlotte (Portman), happily ensconced as a curator in a posh museum. She supplies the necessary back-story during their subsequent argument: Luke is a disgraced archeologist hell-bent on continuing their late father’s legacy of treasure-hunting. Although Charlotte was an active participant, back in the day, she no longer wants any part of it.
She’s also preoccupied with a messy divorce from her unfaithful husband, Harold (Daniel de Bourg, appropriately condescending and hateful). He’s fighting for full custody of their adolescent son, Thomas (Benjamin Chivers).
Even so, Luke believes that he knows Charlotte better than she knows herself.
Come on, he insists; you miss this stuff.
No, she replies, just as forcefully; I don’t.
Luke then forces the issue by drugging her, so he can steal a painting from the museum. This puts her in the crosshairs of Interpol Inspector Jamal Abbas (Arian Moayed), who regards her guilty by virtue of sibling association. Which adds fuel to Harold’s divorce demands.
Left with no choice, Charlotte reluctantly joins the gang for a massive operation funded by über-wealthy corporate raider Owen Carver (Domhnall Gleeson). Their goal: to find the fabled Fountain of Youth, which Carver hopes will cure his terminal cancer.
The rumored “path” to this goal supposedly is concealed within six famous paintings of Jesus Christ, by Rubens, Caravaggio, Wilden, Veláquez, El Greco and Rembrandt.
Luke and Charlotte’s father discovered that a clandestine society known as the “Protectors of the Path” has concealed the Fountain for centuries, and is determined to keep doing so; Esme is one such Protector.
Vanderbilt cheekily inserts bits of historical fact into his otherwise audaciously fabricated script: the half-dozen paintings, the so-called Wicked Bible, and other bits and bobs.
The subsequent search involves raising the first-class section of the ill-fated Lusitania, from its resting place 300 feet beneath the Irish sea: a spectacular set-piece that smoothly blends real footage with models and CGI. The climactic infiltration of Egypt’s Great Pyramid of Giza is equally impressive, albeit relying almost totally on CGI.
Progress is impeded repeatedly by Kasem and his Thai thugs, Esme and her fellow Protectors, and Abbas and his Interpol agents. Ritchie and editor James Herbert rely on momentum to camouflage most of the plot’s contrivances, but a few whoppers can’t be concealed: Esme’s unexplained — and frankly impossible — survival, at one point; and the suddenness with which young Thomas joins the team.
(Once present, his input proves invaluable.)
Krasinski gives his all to the lead role, and makes this nonsense reasonably enjoyable; he gives Vanderbilt’s often silly dialogue more credibility than it deserves. González makes Esme a terrific foil, who seems to admire Luke as much as she refuses to allow his quest to succeed. Krasinski and González have fun with the flirty, will-they-won’t-they nature of their expanding relationship.
Moayed delivers an engaging blend of authority and savoir faire as the dogged Inspector Abbas, and Chivers is delightful as the observant and insightful Thomas.
I particularly like a conversation Thomas has with the mostly unforthcoming Carver, who opens up in the boy’s presence.
Alonso and Ejogo remain woefully under-developed, present merely to serve Luke’s every suggestion or demand. Finally, Stanley Tucci apparently spent half a day on set, for his fleeting appearance as the gravely concerned Protector Elder, who gives Esme her marching orders.
Composer Christopher Benstead’s energized score helps fuel all the thrills ’n’ spills.
While Ritchie’s film is far more entertaining than the overcooked and overly serious Mission Impossible: Final Reckoning, there’s no avoiding the fact that Fountain of Youth is relentlessly silly: at best, a brain-dead guilty pleasure.
And some folks likely will consider that label too generous.
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