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Kevin Costner plays a schizophrenic serial killer (here being goaded on by William Hurt as the baddie alter ego) in a movie with a
shorter attention span than its audience
shorter attention span than its audience
You're Killing Me:
Mr. Brooks
6-1-07 "Knight Thoughts" web exclusive
By Richard Knight, Jr.
Mr. Brooks
6-1-07 "Knight Thoughts" web exclusive
By Richard Knight, Jr.
Kevin Costner is not giving up. He’s had flop after flop, both critically and artistically, and yet, like most male stars who were male
Superstars at one point, Hollywood is still willing to give him one more shot at breaking the house when it comes to box office
roulette. Sylvester Stallone, in his day, had the same latitude. So did Arnold. So did a lot of other male stars. But the females,
forget it – one, maybe two flops and kiss those starring vehicles goodbye. It’s the has been bin for the ladies.
But enough of that old saw and onto Costner’s latest attempt at reclaiming his Dances with Wolves box office sized glory. This latest
salvo is called Mr. Brooks and in it, Costner turns, inevitably, to the character of the serial killer. Any star worth his universal
appeal will sooner or later add a serial killer to his character galaxy and now Costner has his.
The film begins with assurance and promise. Our Mr. Brooks it seems is a bastion of good citizenship and financial generosity. We
see him being lauded by a crowded room full of fellow wealthy cronies and their surgically altered wives (Costner’s is played by Marg
Helgenberger). But as Mr. Brooks rises to accept the award that he is being bestowed on him his schizophrenic other half Marshall
(played by William Hurt) is already urging him on. It’s time to “feed” the hunger once more and apparently Marshall has been
nagging at Mr. Brooks for quite a time to resume his horrific activities. “You deserve a treat,” Marshall implores and after putting the
wife to bed in their fabulous glass and steel mansion later that night Mr. Brooks gives in. He retires to a secret closet filled with
black clothes, work boots, guns, ammo, and other accoutrement. As the camera glides over the clothes and boots there’s a dual
queasy-giddy feeling – the guy’s like a reverse superhero, a metrosexual serial killer in the American Psycho mold.
We then follow Mr. Brooks to his pre-selected location; watch as he quickly dispenses with a pair of unsuspecting lovers, cleans up
afterwards, and returns home carefully incinerating the incriminating evidence. Obviously, he’s done this many, many times before.
The efficiency and icy tone of this prologue – along with its teasing black comic undertone – is a terrific start and Costner uses his
blank Everyman quality to great effect (less successful is the forced trait of having Mr. Brooks remove his designer eye wear in order
to become the murderous Marshall). I had great hopes that at last here would be a malevolent screen match for the Talented Mr.
Ripley himself (as essayed by John Malkovich in Ripley’s Game and not Matt Damon in the lush homoerotic Minghella one). But the
next day while headquartered in his the movie goes off track and never recovers. Into the plot walks Mr. Smith played by hip
comedian Dane Cook who presents Mr. Brooks with pictures he’s taken of him committing the murders. But Mr. Smith doesn’t want
money or Mr. Brooks to turn himself in and collect a reward or his own Man of the Year award. What Mr. Smith wants is for Mr.
Brooks to teach him how to kill someone on his own – because watching the act was such an incredible turn on.
This outrageous twist turns the movie on a dime and it never recovers. At that point I also lost any hope that writer-director Bruce A.
Evans (who has written a spate of bad pictures and directed one previous one, a spoof called Kuffs in 1992) had any real hold on his
picture, so wildly does it veer in tone. The mess that follows this great first 20 minutes is so convoluted (it veers from icy to
melodrama to a frat boy comedy and back again) that after a point I simply stopped counting how many movie genres Evans
managed to stuff into the film. Demi Moore is on hand as a detective with emotional and financial issues (don’t ask) tracking
Costner who as the pictures progresses bickers with his bad alter ego Hurt to the point where they are like a road show of Felix and
Oscar in “The Odd Couple.” I'm not mentioning the psycho daughter subplot. Okay I did but never mind.
And there’s also plenty of gratuitous violence and gore to ramp up whatever interest, I suppose, the college boys might have in the
outcome of this preposterous mess. Costner is a great Everyman kind of actor – effortlessly authoritative and sexy in smaller parts
in The Upside of Anger and Rumor Has It – but much more problematic in star turns like this and in the Naval misstep, The Guardian.
Neither will be likely to return him to Supernova status anytime soon. As for Evans, nothing else to say. Mr. Brooks speaks for itself.
Superstars at one point, Hollywood is still willing to give him one more shot at breaking the house when it comes to box office
roulette. Sylvester Stallone, in his day, had the same latitude. So did Arnold. So did a lot of other male stars. But the females,
forget it – one, maybe two flops and kiss those starring vehicles goodbye. It’s the has been bin for the ladies.
But enough of that old saw and onto Costner’s latest attempt at reclaiming his Dances with Wolves box office sized glory. This latest
salvo is called Mr. Brooks and in it, Costner turns, inevitably, to the character of the serial killer. Any star worth his universal
appeal will sooner or later add a serial killer to his character galaxy and now Costner has his.
The film begins with assurance and promise. Our Mr. Brooks it seems is a bastion of good citizenship and financial generosity. We
see him being lauded by a crowded room full of fellow wealthy cronies and their surgically altered wives (Costner’s is played by Marg
Helgenberger). But as Mr. Brooks rises to accept the award that he is being bestowed on him his schizophrenic other half Marshall
(played by William Hurt) is already urging him on. It’s time to “feed” the hunger once more and apparently Marshall has been
nagging at Mr. Brooks for quite a time to resume his horrific activities. “You deserve a treat,” Marshall implores and after putting the
wife to bed in their fabulous glass and steel mansion later that night Mr. Brooks gives in. He retires to a secret closet filled with
black clothes, work boots, guns, ammo, and other accoutrement. As the camera glides over the clothes and boots there’s a dual
queasy-giddy feeling – the guy’s like a reverse superhero, a metrosexual serial killer in the American Psycho mold.
We then follow Mr. Brooks to his pre-selected location; watch as he quickly dispenses with a pair of unsuspecting lovers, cleans up
afterwards, and returns home carefully incinerating the incriminating evidence. Obviously, he’s done this many, many times before.
The efficiency and icy tone of this prologue – along with its teasing black comic undertone – is a terrific start and Costner uses his
blank Everyman quality to great effect (less successful is the forced trait of having Mr. Brooks remove his designer eye wear in order
to become the murderous Marshall). I had great hopes that at last here would be a malevolent screen match for the Talented Mr.
Ripley himself (as essayed by John Malkovich in Ripley’s Game and not Matt Damon in the lush homoerotic Minghella one). But the
next day while headquartered in his the movie goes off track and never recovers. Into the plot walks Mr. Smith played by hip
comedian Dane Cook who presents Mr. Brooks with pictures he’s taken of him committing the murders. But Mr. Smith doesn’t want
money or Mr. Brooks to turn himself in and collect a reward or his own Man of the Year award. What Mr. Smith wants is for Mr.
Brooks to teach him how to kill someone on his own – because watching the act was such an incredible turn on.
This outrageous twist turns the movie on a dime and it never recovers. At that point I also lost any hope that writer-director Bruce A.
Evans (who has written a spate of bad pictures and directed one previous one, a spoof called Kuffs in 1992) had any real hold on his
picture, so wildly does it veer in tone. The mess that follows this great first 20 minutes is so convoluted (it veers from icy to
melodrama to a frat boy comedy and back again) that after a point I simply stopped counting how many movie genres Evans
managed to stuff into the film. Demi Moore is on hand as a detective with emotional and financial issues (don’t ask) tracking
Costner who as the pictures progresses bickers with his bad alter ego Hurt to the point where they are like a road show of Felix and
Oscar in “The Odd Couple.” I'm not mentioning the psycho daughter subplot. Okay I did but never mind.
And there’s also plenty of gratuitous violence and gore to ramp up whatever interest, I suppose, the college boys might have in the
outcome of this preposterous mess. Costner is a great Everyman kind of actor – effortlessly authoritative and sexy in smaller parts
in The Upside of Anger and Rumor Has It – but much more problematic in star turns like this and in the Naval misstep, The Guardian.
Neither will be likely to return him to Supernova status anytime soon. As for Evans, nothing else to say. Mr. Brooks speaks for itself.
