1.5 stars. Rating: R, for profanity, nudity and constant violence
By Derrick Bang
The surprise success of 2010’s The Expendables had an unpleasant side
effect: It gave Sylvester Stallone the impression that he had a career to revive,
and now we’re stuck with vulgar trash such as Bullet to the Head.
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| Real men don't settle their differences with guns; they use axes. Apparently having decided that his film isn't violent enough, director Walter Hill tries for the gold when professional assassin Jimmy Bonomo (Sylvester Stallone) goes one-on-one with the towering Keegan (Jason Momoa). |
The other depressing surprise is
the depth to which director Walter Hill’s career has sunk. The once-promising
young stylist — who, back in the day, impressed us with The Warriors, The Long Riders
and 48 Hrs. — has been reduced to
exploitative sleaze that I’d normally expect to debut as a late-Friday-night
Cinemax original.
But while Stallone and Hill bring
nothing worthwhile to this dumb crime thriller, the lion’s share of blame
belongs to so-called screenwriter Alessandro Camon, whose efforts here don’t
even qualify as creative typing. He has adapted French writer Alexis Nolent’s
three-part graphic novel series, Headshot
(aka Du plomb dans la tête), with a
complete absence of grace, wit and plot logic.
Nothing — and I mean absolutely nothing — in Camon’s narrative makes
sense. Various low-level characters are introduced solely so Stallone’s James
“Jimmy” Bonomo can blow them away. The pattern is repeated ad nauseum: Some guy is found, he blusters profanely before giving
up the name of the some other guy; he takes a bullet to the head. And then on
to the next one.
And I won’t even attempt to
describe the plot “surprise” that occupies the blood-soaked climax, at which
point Camon’s scribblings truly enter cloud cuckoo-land.
I keep reminding myself that
well-paid executives at Warner Bros. apparently found merit in this swill. What
were they smoking that day?
Hill signals his tawdry
sensibilities with the opening scene, as some insignificant goon inhales
dollops of cocaine, chases it down with a pint or so of vodka, and heads toward
the naked Russian hooker waiting perkily in the shower. (It should be mentioned
that only two significant female characters inhabit this story, both apparently
present so they can flash their boobs.)
This wholesome scene is
interrupted by Jimmy and partner Louis Blanchard (Jon Seda), who wave badges
and stride into the hotel room, as their unhappy host babbles about warrants
and lawyers. Ah, but Jimmy and Louis aren’t cops; they’re professional killers.
One dead scumbag later, they’re on their way, Jimmy rather inexplicably having
failed to kill the witnessing hooker as well.
Could this have been a mistake?
Moments later, while chilling at a bar, Louis is killed by Keegan (Jason
Momoa), a towering mercenary who tries — but fails — to off Jimmy as well.
Elsewhere across town, visiting
detective Taylor Kwon (Sung Kang) checks in with New Orleans cops Lebreton
(Dane Rhodes) and Towne (Marcus Lyle Brown). Kwon is pursuing a lead that got
his partner killed back in Washington, D.C.; Lebreton and Towne aren’t inclined
to be helpful, but they don’t object when the newcomer expresses interest in
this hot-off-the-griddle hotel killing.
Thanks to frequent phone chats
with an amazing departmental researcher (never shown) back in D.C., who always gets
results in seconds, Kwon quickly
hooks up with Jimmy and proposes an uneasy alliance: They both lost partners, so
how ’bout teaming up to defeat the common enemy? Jimmy makes a great show of
declining — Stallone’s granite-faced scowl struggling mightily to express
anything resembling a flicker of actual emotion — but of course they
immediately become allies.
And start up the criminal food
chain, in the manner previously described, to Kwon’s ongoing horror.
“You can’t just shoot a guy like that!” he protests, the
first time (or was it the third?).
“I just did,” Jimmy replies, in
what passes for banter in this numbnuts script.
The final link in said chain is
Robert Nkomo Morel (Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje), a ruthless financier who fled
some African country (!) in order to become a shady developer in New Orleans.
He’s assisted by Baptiste (Christian Slater), a crooked lawyer who fancies
himself an Old World aristocrat and loves to throw hedonistic parties.
Jimmy and Kwon catch up with
Baptiste at the latter’s lavish masked ball, where — wouldn’t you know it —
many of the women apparently forgot their costumes.
Kwon manages to take a bullet in
the shoulder (no, not in the head) somewhere along the way, at which point
Jimmy brings him to a low-rent tattoo parlor, where sexy needle artist Lisa
(Sarah Shahi) patches up the poor boy, employing the skills she learned during
her single year at medical school. Turns out Lisa is Jimmy’s daughter — goodness, what a surprise! — and of
course she’s the one thing in this world that he truly cares about, blah, blah,
blah.
Cue Lisa’s abduction by Keegan.
Normally, you’d be able to write the rest of this silly story the way a
5-year-old connects the dots, but an unexpected — nay, deranged — impulse on
Keegan’s part changes the dynamic a bit. Not for the better. Maybe that plot
hiccup played well in Nolent’s graphic novel, but it sure is stupid here.
Stallone’s “performance” in this
flick is a joke, the few acting chops he possessed, eons ago, obviously have
abandoned him. One has to wonder if cosmetic surgery has left him with nothing but the brooding, sleepy-eyed glower
that is his sole expression throughout
this entire film.
Kang, probably recognized from
the Fast and Furious franchise, has
plenty of presence and acting talent; in a better project, he’d obviously
shine. But this script makes Kwon a walking joke who repeatedly behaves like a
moron; there simply isn’t any reason Jimmy wouldn’t whack this interloper and
be done with him. Try as he might, Kang can’t earn any sympathy or respect
here.
Momoa, the former Baywatch hunk who recently failed to
re-ignite the Conan franchise, comes
off a bit better as Keegan. He makes a pretty good hovering menace: the sort of
secondary baddie sent off to do all the dirty work at the behest of a James
Bondian megalomaniac. (Indeed, Akinnuoye-Agbaje’s Morel has that cartoonish
aspect.)
Shahi shows some resourceful
spunk as Lisa, but it’s another thankless role; she functions mainly as a Woman
In Peril. Slater simply wastes his time in, yes, yet another under-developed
part.
Nobody else remains on camera
long enough to worry about.
Arnold Schwarzenegger’s recent
attempt to revive his career — The Last
Stand — at least had the good sense not to take itself seriously; Arnie
also was smart enough to surround himself with reasonably well-drawn supporting
characters and Johnny Knoxville’s comic skills. Bullet to the Head, in great contrast, is as humorless and
unwaveringly tedious as Stallone’s frozen-faced mug.
Rubbish this incompetent will
serve only to stoke the fires of publicity-minded politicians eager to
castigate the rising levels of violence in cinema. This flick is bound to make
the top of such lists ... with a bullet.
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