By Antonio Valenzuela
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Michael Atkinson
By Chris Packham
By Kevin Dilmore
By Amy Nicholson
The perpetrators of the new Sandra Bullock vehicle, Murder by Numbers, could be hauled in on any number of charges, including plagiarism and child abuse. But their most obvious crime is first-degree dullness. A thriller without thrills, a mystery devoid of urgent questions, this merely bloody piece of business spends two long, long hours in a picturesque California coastal town trying (and failing) to update the old Leopold-Loeb murder case for the age of personal computers and high-tech crime labs, while mixing in exploitative aftertastes of In Cold Blood and the Columbine High School massacre.
At the same time, the movie is burdened by an unwieldy subplot concerning its homicide-detective heroine's haunted memories and her inability to have decent relationships with men.
The Leopold-Loeb shocker of 1924, in which a pair of arrogant Chicago college students murdered a boy to show off their intellectual superiority, has been the root of at least three previous movies. All of them showed truer and more harrowing views of dark codependence: Alfred Hitchcock's narrative experiment Rope, Richard Fleischer's durable Compulsion, and 1992's Swoon, which played up the homophobic atmosphere of the killers' sensational trial. The sick-boy bonding in Numbers adds exactly nothing to the canon; in fact, it's not even the focus of director Barbet Schroeder (Desperate Measures, Single White Female) and writer Tony Gayton. Clearly, they are more interested in their troubled policewoman's personal issues than in two high school kids trying to get away with murder for the hell of it.
Since driving the explosives-rigged bus in Speed, Bullock has spent eight years building her brand name via mediocrities like Hope Floats, The Netand Miss Congeniality, and once more, the crudest commercial impulses of an obviously talented actress are on display. As Cassie Mayweather, a sharp-tongued, whiskey-swilling fanatic no one else on the force wants to work with, the doe-eyed Bullock quickly reduces her hard-shelled character to caricature. Although the moviemakers wish it to be so, the fact that this demon-driven cop is a woman doesn't really distinguish her from the obsessive-compulsives, such as Dirty Harry and Andy Sipowicz, who preceded her. We've seen enough gender bending and role reversals at the movies that we're not surprised (much less delighted) when she strong-arms her new, green partner, Sam (Ben Chaplin), into bed, then throws him out when it's over, or when she lands a solid left hook to the jaw of a suspect. These days, stubborn, dogged cops are manufactured in both sexes.
The homicidal boys come from the same discount store in which Gayton and Schroeder selected Cassie. Justin (Michael Pitt) is the standard bookish outcast with a head full of Rimbaud poems and Nietzschean power fantasies; Richard (Ryan Gosling) is the manipulative control freak who's swept his conscience under the rug. The moviemakers would have us believe they make for a fascinating combination, but it's really no more than a lethal one. When the boys choose a victim at random, kidnap and murder her, then leave a trail of clever false clues to mislead the police, we know they'll eventually get caught. Cassie Mayweather's on the job, after all. She understands when a severed finger's been planted for effect and just when to analyze a crucial puddle of vomit. But in the absence of any real psychological tension, we're left to contemplate nothing more interesting than Cassie's own traumas, which stem from an old case of attempted murder.
Schroeder tries vainly to spice up the proceedings. A baboon mauls the heroine. A teenage girl (Agnes Bruckner) drives a predictable wedge between the young killers. But Schroeder's past as a French filmmaker partial to tedious intellectual exercises is still catching up with him: Three-fourths of the way into the proceedings, he gives us an endless police-interrogation sequence that would try Columbo's patience, and the homoerotic undertones he inserts into the story are coy, at best. Murder by Numbers is neither a mystery (we know whodunnit from the start) nor a thriller (it produces all the tension of a quilting bee), and it eventually collapses under the weight of pretensions and cliches. Not even Schroeder's literal cliff-hanger of a finale stirs up much excitement, and by the time Bullock's cop finally cleanses her soul and drives out her demons, you wish her well but hope she doesn't return for an encore.
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