Dir. John Moore, 2008, US, 100 mins
Cast: Mark Wahlberg, Beau Bridges, Mila Kunis, Chris ‘Ludacris’ Bridges, Chris O’Donnell, Olga Kurylenko
Review by Richard Mellor
(Warning, terrible pun ahead.) Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think, that a man once famed chiefly for modelling expensive, slight briefs that left little to the imagination is now appearing in big-budget cinematic pants that require equally brief analysis?
The most notable thing about Max Payne (both the film and the eponymous main character) is that ‘Marky’ Mark Wahlberg’s shoulders never move. Not even the combined G-force of drowning, cataclysmic blow-ups and hallucinogenic drugs can engender a shrug. He must be the envy of eagle trainers up and down the land. The closest this steadfast upper torso comes to sagging is a hug from Max’s shadowy father figure, BB Hensley (Beau Bridges), but more of him later.
See, Max is mad, although more in an angry sense than in a Mel Gibson way. Working a token job in the NYPD’s most subterranean office, he’s unsecretly obsessed with finding the third of three men who killed his beloved wife a few years ago. Unfortunately, this turns out to be a villain who summons valkyries (ancient war angels, silly) hangs out on rooftops, has an ominous amount of tattoos and is just as unreflexive when it comes to his deltoid. He’s efficient too —Bond-Girl Olga Kurylenko barely lasts 10 minutes, while Max’s former partner fares little better — much to the chagrin of his widow (Nelly Furtado making a sassy cameo).
Much is made of Max’s social alienation. When a green, new recruit foolishly has the idiocy to ask this roll-necked recluse for a drink, a smouldering ‘Marky’ Mark merely smiles scornfully, in a pose Calvin Klein would admire. A drink? How trivial! “Don’t you know,” he seems to be asking this new kid on the block, “that at the expense of sleep (or massage) I spend my spare time skulking subways and barging around bars, with only an occasional pause to mourn my late bride?” It’s true, too.
And quicker than you can say “Hang on, isn’t that Chris O’Donnell, i.e. Robin from one of the less-impressive Batman films, and also Scent of a Woman, where he was outshined by Pacino — but then again, aren’t most people?”, Max has a lead. After kicking in a number of doors down and ignoring the twin attractions of a several babes, he discovers from the crooked head-of-security (O’Donnell — yep) that his wife’s old company — an evil chemical corporation with a suspiciously big skyscraper and that man BB as one of the bosses — may have ordered her death.
From here on in, scenes seem intent on outdoing their predecessor, with each apocryphal explosion or exhibit of gunmanship marginally more preposterous than the last. Add in ludicrous character names like Lieutenant Bravura (played, appropriately, by rap star Ludacris) and the movie ends up decidedly comic-book, as moral Max rights his wrongs. “I dunno ‘bout heaven, but I do believe in angels,” growls the Payne eloquently, referring to his lost spouse as much as the valkyries. I laugh out loud; what sort of prat would make an awful pun like that?
In English the ‘pathetic fallacy’ is when the weather mirrors the mood of a story and/or its key characters. In this murky drama, inclement gloomster Max lives in a peculiarly wintry NYC that’s permanently dark, dank and damp, save for a lone snowstorm. Either these alarming meteorological conditions unsubtly reflect Max’s inclement outlook, or it’s still more terrifying evidence of climate change.
If that modern concern has possibly hit home with the picture’s producers, the ongoing financial crisis certainly hasn’t registered. "What credit crunch?!" they laugh, evilly. Director John Moore gleefully blows up half of Gotham — sorry, New York — meaning his film must certainly have cost a few bob. In the name of entertainment, yes, but when it’s invested in tosh of this scale, you do wish the cash had instead been devoted to other, needier worldwide causes. Instead, we’re left with a crass, pointless and ill-considered piece of dross.
Briefly Max Payne is reminiscent of The Crow: both films have a noirish tone, powerful winged things (NB: Nelly Furtado’s character is not at all like a bird) and a man avenging the death of his favourite female. But where Alex Proyas’ cult classic had restraint and beauty, MP is high-octane ugliness; where Brandon Lee eschewed brittle tenderness, Wahlberg is pure wooden brawn. Bring back Dirk Diggler, I say — he was hard in a much more fun way. And his bloody shoulders moved...
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