Review

Review Date: 13-November-05
Spoiler Rating: High
Juju Judgment: Junk

Derailed (2005)

When Clive Owen missed out on the role of James Bond, it seemed both surprising and fortuitous to me, like he eluded an onerous destiny so he could pursue better things. It's disappointing, therefore, to find him in junk like "Derailed," a superfluous washout that mocks its own moralizing with an overkill of sexuality and violence. Owen is so gorgeous he can make your toes curl, which is worth something in a voyeuristic sense. But as far as artistry, amusement, or storytelling goes, this film has no value at all.

Like a number of movies harkening back to "Fatal Attraction," "Derailed" is a cautionary tale about the pitfalls of infidelity for generally straitlaced, middle-class men. (Or so it seems.) There's no trace of originality in the ordeal of Charles Schine, an ad executive who is tempted by a financial analyst he meets on a train. To his eyes, Lucinda Harris (Jennifer Aniston) offers respite from the emasculation of the business world and the strain of family life, and he falls into her blue-eyed cool with little trepidation. Just days after their first encounter they share a few secrets, down a few drinks, and head to a quiet hotel, where everything goes horribly wrong.

The bulk of the movie involves poor Charles, gorgeous but ineffectual, trying to extricate himself from the mess that he made. His struggle pits him against a ubiquitous opponent who's partly Eurotrash, partly gangsta, and wholly unbelievable (Vincent Cassel). Because of the guilt at the root of his problem, he seeks help only from his lawyer (just ineffectual) and an ex-con who works as a mail clerk at his office (RZA). Ultimately, of course, he must take responsibility for his mistakes and their resolution, and the script makes his retaliation convenient by trotting out unlikely situations and motivating him with a twist that anyone could see coming down the tracks.

The ostensible lesson of such stories is always the same: Guys, if you meet a woman who seems too good to be true, she probably is, so you're better off being content with what you have. But couldn't these fellows get educated in a less macho way? And doesn't the fact that they always possess a lot (big house, pretty wife, innocent child) make them shallow ingrates to begin with? The sincerity of the moral is questionable when it's delivered by men with picture-perfect lives who dip into the other American dream, the one that involves dangerously sexy women and playing with guns. I suspect the real point of these stories is a fantasy wherein Mr. Self-Satisfied gets to have his cake and eat it too, gets to unleash his inner Conan through lust, both bloody and otherwise, and then return to the hearth in a gratified state. I'll not argue too forcibly that white-collar husbands aren't longing to do this every day (or that the fantasy didn't play well with the rollicking humor of "Mr. & Mrs. Smith"). I will assert, however, that they usually look like fools when they try it, as stupid movies like "Derailed" will attest.

Copyright © 2005 The Jujube (M. I. Kim). All rights reserved.