Where the Boys Are (1)

U-571

     Hollywood is stuck in a time warp, with several films of the "they don’t make movies like this anymore" variety coming along recently. The somewhat soggy U-571 reminds us that submarines have a built-in dramatic energy, which filmmakers have recognized in films ranging from Run Silent, Run Deep to The Hunt for Red October.  But U-571 sinks beneath the weight of its lack of characterization and its reliance on an old-fashioned jingoism that lets a handful of Americans whip up on a whole lot of Nazis who seem strangely unable to respond.

     That’s a quibble. This is almost an edge-of-the seater, except everything is so clearly stacked that we know that our boys will somehow get through. Well, they certainly have plenty to get through—stuck in a German submarine, after their own (American) sub is destroyed. But, these are American boys, after all. In less time than it would take them to figure out how to change the tire on a German car, they are putting the German submarine they’ve captured through its paces, not too bad considering that the sub was disabled when they commandeered it.

     Hazards and problems pile up so fast that we never have time to realize that we don’t know enough about the characters to care whether they sink or swim. They don’t have personalities, just attributes: one is half-German, one is small, one is black, and one is old. And the plot doesn’t have development, just more leaks, more torpedoes, more depth charges, more groans of the submarine under the increasing pressure of the water.

      Matthew McConaughey’s emotionless posing serves the script well, because his character is no character at all. Harvey Keitel, who could sustain a meatier role, is reduced by the script to a condiment in this submarine sandwich, a rather salty condiment, but his talent is sadly wasted. Maybe I can’t let go a dreadful metaphor, but McConaughey is very white bread. Except for McConaughey, who has never demonstrated any more acting ability than he does here, the cast members give it their best, in an ensemble performance that holds up to the pressures of the water and the script alike.

     The technology roars over any human shortcomings, and this movie is nothing if not loud. Explosions, torpedoes, and depth charges keep things rolling along, while we are treated to some fairly convincing images of the sub itself. This would be a pretty suspenseful enterprise, except it is so predictable. The good guys—and there is never any post-Vietnam doubt about who the good guys are—will prevail, even if we, I mean, they, only have one torpedo left. Eventually, the sub wasn’t the only source of groans, as I watched in disbelief that the filmmakers don’t take our disbelief into consideration. In fact, the submariners lose some of their claim to heroism because they don’t have to face themselves (a ten-second pep talk sends a scared kid to a suicidal sacrifice) or even fair odds in battle.

     And, oops, there’s another leak. This film has just about the leakiest plot of all time. But, if you can keep your feet dry, it certainly has enough noble thoughts to keep treading water for. Just don’t expect too much depth.

Frequency

     Sometimes, the pressure of several tons of water on a sub is nothing compared to the pressure of, oh, something as insignificant as a little common sense on a movie plot. I can sink to the depths of the absurdity of the plot of U-571, but try as I might, I just cannot get below the surface of Frequency. 

     It is a good enough, decent enough film, I suppose, but it seems to fall into a strange little movie trend-let these days, the warm and fuzzy horror film, which aims not for the jugular but for the heart. Think of The Sixth Sense and The Green Mile. It’s hard to get as cozy with a film about a serial killer as the film invites us to be, and it’s just as hard to swallow some of the absurdities of the plot.

      In 1999, John (James Caviezel), a policeman, manages (don’t ask how) to get in touch with his fireman father Frank (Dennis Quaid) who died in a fire thirty years earlier. John actually figures out a way to help his father avoid his death that—are you still with me?—gets us (yes, you are a part of this) involved with a serial killer. 

     Gee, I’m sorry. I was really cheering this film on. I wanted it to work. I was even willing to work with it, swallow my pride and my disbelief… but I could not swallow a bunch of other stuff. Everything just seems thrown together. It’s a sad fact, but when you start tampering with the most basic laws of cause and effect, not to mention messing with the orderly flow of time, you have to be very careful. 

     Unfortunately, director Gregory Hoblit and writer Toby Emmerich aren’t.