By Inkoo Kang
By Amanda Lewis
By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Michael Atkinson
By Michael Atkinson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
There have already been critical rumblings about the extreme violence in Shoot ¹Em Up, but it's hard to get too worked up about a film whose very title announces its maker's intent. You just can't stay mad at a picture that early on has the hero helping a woman give birth with one hand and shooting encroaching thugs with the other. Moments later, as any fast-thinking gentleman would, he severs the baby's umbilical chord by shooting it in two, prompting the new mother to scream (quite sensibly), "What the hell are you doing?"
I mean, hey, that's funny.
Okay. Maybe it's a guy thing.
Clive Owen is the carrot-chomping Mr. Smith, a tough-looking guy in a long leather coat who's sitting on a bus bench on a seedy Manhattan side street, minding his own mysterious business, when a screaming pregnant woman (Ramona Pringle) runs past him, as does a profanity-spewing ne'er-do-well with a gun. Sighing, Smith gives chase, leading to a warehouse shootout involving an assortment of heavily armed creeps who are being led, lo and behold, by a snarling Paul Giamatti, a great actor who's clearly decided — after having suffered artfully in Sideways and The Cinderella Man and stillnot winning an Academy Award — that he deserves a silly but lucrative action-movie moment to call his own.
But back to the guns. And the kid. That adorable tyke — a boy, of course, delivered during the warehouse shootout — falls into Smith's care (following Children of Men, this marks Owen's second consecutive on-screen baby rescue), and after tucking him under his arm like a football, he and the child, soon to gain a much-needed flak jacket, take to the streets, where Smith will attempt to fathom why an army of hit men has been dispatched to kill a newborn. And because Clive Owen must have someone to kiss, a brainy, sultry Italian prostitute (Monica Bellucci), who just happens to be lactating, will come along for the ride.
Writer-director Michael Davis, who has made four previous films that no one really remembers, freely admits to lifting the idea for Shoot 'Em Up from the classic baby-in-peril hospital shootout in John Woo's Hong Kong thriller, Hard-Boiled (1992). Davis's candor is admirable, but it made me think (as I often do when seeing American movies) of a line Bob Dylan once sang (and co-wrote, oddly enough, with playwright Sam Shepard) that goes, "Ah, if there's an original thought out there, I could use it right now." Woo was surely thinking fresh thoughts when he sent Chow Yun-Fat into Hard-Boiled's maternity ward, gun blazing, but these days, in Hollywood and international cinema alike, it is enough to cleverly mix and match film references, particularly in genre movies. Originality is no longer the path to success (maybe it never was), hence Davis's enthusiastic nods — let's call them loving homage — to Raising Arizona, The Matrix, and a British series about a spy named Bond, James Bond.
Riffing on 007 movies is so old hat as to be a sign of lazy screenwriting, but here such jokes, which include a wonderfully ridiculous skydiving shootout and an end title sequence in which sexily silhouetted women writhe atop gun barrels take on new resonance with the presence of Owen. There's no way to watch this previously serious, Oscar-nominated Brit running, leaping and firing a gun in a single, elegant bound without wondering anew just how close this guy came to landing the big part, the one that went instead to Daniel Craig. Owen, who has the dark, hairy-chested good looks of Sean Connery, has denied being considered for Bond, but that's always been hard to believe. Shoot 'Em Up is guilty-pleasure junk that Giamatti surely took for the sheer manly-man hell of it. And though he'd probably deny the theory, it's fun to imagine that Owen took the movie as a way of thumbing his nose — just a tiny bit and all in good sport — at Craig, his countryman and acting equal, who may have simply out-pec'd Owen for the role of a lifetime.
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