 |
| Whitey
doesn’t have a clue: (l-r) Martin, Latifah and Levy in
Bringing Down the House. |
Black
Woman’s Burden
By
Laura Leon
Bringing Down the House
Directed
by Adam Shankman
It seems as if this movie should be titled Bringin Down
Da House, if only because promos hard-sell us on the idea
of homegirl Queen Latifah shakin’ it up at the expense of
uptight lawyer and would-be boyfriend Peter Sanderson (Steve
Martin). But Latifah is also the executive producer of this
film, and the fact that the movie is spelled in the, er, Queen’s
English is subtle proof that the multitalented star is trying
to have it both ways, using this movie as a way to gain entree
to a middle America that hasn’t yet warmed up to Living
Single or “Ladies First,” while playing the black- people-make-white-people-funny
card.
Written by Jason Filardi, Bringing Down the House is
about how an escaped—but of course innocent—convict, Charlene
(Latifah), can make Peter realize that family comes before
career. At the same time, she helps him land rich client Mrs.
Arness (Joan Plowright), befriends daughter Sarah (Kimberly
J. Brown) and teaches son Georgey (Angus T. Jones) how to
read. Oh, and did I mention that she can pose as the family
nanny or, in a pinch, don a maid’s uniform to play Mammy/Hazel
for an important dinner party? Throughout the movie, there
is a disturbing thread of old-time racism, which, given Latifah’s
dignity and strength, seems remarkable. Without exception,
Charlene, her clothes, her mannerisms and her lingo, are the
brunt of the joke, whereas Peter and his cronies are funny
only in the way they (perhaps echoing the intended audience’s
instincts) react to her.
Latifah and Martin are a good team, to the extent that the
inane script allows them to be, but director Shankman seems
nervous about letting their subtly percolating relationship
ever boil over into anything approaching romance. Instead,
we have burlesque moments that play up Latifah’s ample bosoms
and rolling hips against Martin’s whiteness, which equates
sexual inadequacy. Only Eugene Levy, as Peter’s associate,
retains any dignity as he cleverly purrs lines like, “Swing
it, you cocoa goddess” and “You got me twisted up in the game”
with no attempt at milking the humor of a Jewish guy speaking
ghetto. It’s no coincidence that his lines are rewarded with
the audience’s only true belly laughs.
Overall, Bringing Down the House retreads that time-honored,
if ridiculous, idea that white people can only be sane, hip
and even saintly if they allow blacks to help them coax out
their inner homeboys. Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy had it down
much better in 48 Hours, if only because each character
was allowed to make fun of the other, and still retain their
respective honor and intelligence. Yeah, they became buddies
in the end, but, in essence, they were still who they were.
The makers of Bringing Down the House, Latifah included,
are too timid to go this route, let alone give Charlene any
real power or vitriol; instead, we have a movie that could
have been made 40 years ago.
Black
Hawk Dull
Tears
of the Sun
Directed
by Antoine Fuqua
“God
go with you,” says a missionary to the Navy SEAL offering
him a helicopter ride to safety. “God already left Africa,”
replies the commando. Set in Nigeria in a fictionalized here
and now, Tears of the Sun, from Training Day
director Antoine Fuqua, aims to go Black Hawk Down
a few notches better. In this lushly crafted military flick,
emotions run to code red and the participants are sketched
in thick outlines. No morally ambivalent actions or motivations
for Fuqua; by the time Bruce Willis as the special-ops commando
outmaneuvers a genocidal Nigerian militia, it’s three cheers
(or tears) for the U.S. of A. (next stop: Iraq).
Lt. A. K. Waters (Willis) hasn’t cracked a smile since basic
training. With his shaved head, worn grimace and laconic cynicism,
Waters is one of those killing machines (the prototype being
Chow Yun Fat’s assassin in Fuqua’s The Replacement Killers)
who obeys orders with ruthless precision. He and his squad
are sent to the African coast to “extract critical personalities”
(meaning Americans) from the ethnic-cleansing raging in Nigeria.
This conflict is neatly fabricated out of incidents from Sudan,
Somalia, and Nigeria’s civil war of 30 years ago into a campaign
of Moslems slaughtering Christians. The national militia,
who are distinguished by their maroon berets, are barely identifiable
as Islamic—apparently, the filmmakers didn’t want to be too
obvious, saving their heavy righteousness for the strife between
Waters and Dr. Lena Hendricks (Monica Bellucci), an Italian
doctor who runs the mission’s bush hospital. Hendricks is
American by marriage to her late husband and therefore must
be extracted.
The hot-blooded doctor, whose intensity has not been tempered
by the harsh realities of practicing medicine in a war zone,
refuses to leave without her 70 or so patients. Perhaps inspired
by Hendricks’ heaving bosom as she runs around with her shirt
half open in a state of reckless distress, Waters agrees to
take those refugees who are able to walk to the helicopters.
The other three missionaries won’t leave the severely wounded,
but since none of them is played by an international beauty
like Bellucci, they are allowed to stay behind. After a time-consuming
hike to the LZ, Waters abandons the refugees and muscles the
doctor into the chopper. After flying over a killing field,
he decides to disobey orders and lead an overland rescue mission
to Cameroon.
Never mind that this change of heart is drastic enough to
have required a transplant; the implication is that the doctor
has pierced Waters’ armored conscience with her humanitarian
ardor. And then, for seemingly no other reason than to have
an excuse for a temper tantrum, Hendricks halts the march
for a rest break, even though she knows the militia is hot
on their heels. The film’s entire setup could’ve been dispensed
with if the doctor and the lieutenant had simply exchanged
intel. It doesn’t help that Willis is operating on autopilot
while Bellucci is in overdrive. The actual acting is carried
out by the squad members, including a black SEAL (Eamonn Walker)
who is forced to contribute to the film’s pervasive whiff
of paternalism by telling Waters: “These are my people, too.”
Stylistically, Tears of the Sun is equally in thrall
to The Mission, with its mystical shots of forested
mountains; and Apocalypse Now, reflected by the gleam
of Waters’ shiny pate, the refugees’ shiny eyes, and Hendricks’
shiny lips in the tropical gloaming (tropical gloaming being
Hollywood shorthand for Conrad’s heart of darkness). The film
doesn’t kick into gear until the squad catches the militia
in the act of committing atrocities. The battle sequences
are tensely executed, with the rape and torture of the villagers
being left mostly to the imagination in a way that only increases
the horror. Even so, the fighting and its related plot twist
are carefully choreographed to emphasize the squad’s heroism
and self-sacrificing connection to the refugees.
By trying to be both topical and mythic, Tears winds
up a patriotic crock. As for the romance, after Hendricks’
umpteenth emotional outburst, Waters tells her, “Oh, cut the
shit.” It’s the most believable line in the movie.
—Ann
Morrow
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