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Lost
in a funk: Depp in Secret Window.
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Writer’s
Block
By Ann Morrow
Secret
Window
Directed
by David Koepp
In Secret Window, adapted from a Stephen King novella,
Johnny Depp plays a mystery writer holed up in a country bungalow.
Mort Rainey has produced exactly one sentence of his latest
work, and it’s not a very good one. Rousing himself from a
nap—that by the appearance of his plastered vertical hair
has lasted intermittently for the six months he’s been there—he
tells his dog, “No bad writing,” and deletes the sentence.
He shambles around in a ratty bathrobe, annoyed by every distraction,
such as the solicitations of his kindly housekeeper, whom
he razzes behind her back. Mort’s writerly funk is the most
engaging part of Secret Window, a rote psychological
thriller directed by David Koepp.
Psychology the film has, thanks to Depp’s entertaining yet
palpably sad performance. Thrilling it’s not. Halfway through,
the film becomes a less-violent rehash of The Dark Half,
the 1993 adaptation of a King novel starring Timothy Hutton.
Hutton here plays Mort’s nemesis, Ted, whom Mort caught in
bed with his adored wife, Amy (Maria Bello). Now Amy and Ted
are a couple, and Mort is losing his house in the divorce
settlement. No wonder he is too depressed to be seriously
alarmed when John Shooter (John Turturro), a farmer from Mississippi
wearing an unnervingly ridiculous hat, shows up at his door
to accuse Mort of having plagiarized his short story. But
Shooter doesn’t want compensation; he wants Mort to rewrite
his story to conform with the ending the farmer wrote. And
if Mort doesn’t, well . . . Shooter is supernaturally skilled
at sneaking up on people in the night. But Mort’s every effort
to obtain the magazine his story was published in, a full
year before Shooter wrote his, goes horribly awry. That Mort’s
depression might be masking some serious passive-aggression
is brought out by Shooter, who shows up at the worst times—like
right after Mort’s divorce hearing.
With his exaggerated, taciturn drawl, Turturro is strikingly
bizarre as Shooter, and Hutton is remarkably good as Ted,
a domineering weenie who seems to think he’s justified in
wrecking Mort’s marriage. But Secret Window belongs
entirely to Depp, which is good, because the film has almost
no suspense, and Depp’s affecting melancholy and physical
creativity fill in the blanks. It’s also bad because this
portrait of a cuckolded writer who spends too much time alone
is more interesting than anything that happens around him,
no matter how murderous (especially when Mort is getting back
at Ted with some bratty zingers): The film’s predictable dark
side becomes an annoyance that gets in the way of a more intriguing
domestic drama. But for all those fans who got through the
willy-silly parts of Pirates of the Caribbean solely
on its Depp charge, Secret Window provides an even
more generous showcase for the actor’s potent whimsy.
Showing
His Age
Agent
Cody Banks 2: Destination
London
Directed
by Kevin Allen
The powers that be who are behind the burgeoning Cody Banks
franchise have a problem on their hands, specifically, the
fact that star Frankie Muniz is no longer a) a kid or b) recognizabley
nerdy. The 18-year old, known mostly for his work on TV’s
Malcolm in the Middle, has crossed over into the realm
of “cool”—at least if MTV, Nick News, US magazine,
etc., can be believed. Whereas in Agent Cody Banks,
much of the humor derived from the lead character’s social
ineptitude, the latest edition, Agent Cody Banks 2: Destination
London, focuses on Cody’s premature maturity and inability
to lighten up. As his new partner Derek Bauman (Anthony Anderson)
instructs, “Act like a kid—that’s why they recruited you!”
The change in focus doesn’t go over that well with the youngest
viewers, who will probably prefer the fart jokes of the first
installment. Nevertheless, there are enough funny moments
to go around for most preteens, although their parents will
be wishing there were more of the humorous exchanges between
Cody and his unsuspecting mom (Cynthia Stevenson), who still
treats her secret-agent offspring as a tyke who can’t possibly
handle nail clippers or real scissors. In these scenes, Muniz’s
expressions and reactions are priceless, whereas in the rest
of the movie, he could just as well be any actor. One can’t
help but be reminded of those painful movies in which Mickey
Rooney, by then married and quite, er, mature despite his
pint-size physique, was compelled to play juveniles.
Luckily, there are enough high-tech gizmos (exploding Mentos
get prominent, amusing play) and wacky characters to make
us forget Muniz’s, and the plot’s, shortcomings. Anderson
is likeable, although if his character’s name were Amos I
wouldn’t have been surprised, and newcomer Hannah Spearitt
as a British intelligence officer is fresh and pretty, a likely,
if unthreatening, wet dream for Cody. Anna Chancellor is relegated
to playing the dotty proprietess of an English school for
talented musicians. She seems to have fun doing so, however;
as for the young musicians, well, they too are likeable and
get to enjoy a “cool” moment of their own, when their virtuosity
helps Cody nab the bad guys. Oddly enough, it made me wish
that this little orchestra had their own movie franchise:
geeky yet talented musicians who solve mysteries and save
the world, in between sets. Something tells me it would have
infinitely more staying power than the quickly aging Cody
Banks franchise.
—Laura
Leon
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& Opinions
