THE SAINT
A film review by Joshua McAdams
Copyright 1997 Joshua McAdams
Boy, what can you say about a movie like the Saint? Did I say movie? I apologize. I should have referred to this Val Kilmer vehicle as an experience --- an experience that I will now attempt to relate to you. It was four in the afternoon on a rainy Sunday when I pulled into the parking lot at the Carmike Six Theater. As local movie houses go the Carmike is easily the best in Charlottesville; the screens are the right ratio, the sound is DTS, and the place is generally showing big budget films with mass appeal. Case in point, last week Carmike was screening four different Harrison Ford movies in five theaters. Talk about over-exposure. The first thing I noticed was the line that generated from the box office and spilled into the parking lot to block traffic. Strange, I thought, there must be a debut this week other than "The Saint." Quickly I scanned the posters hanging outside: it was definitely too late for Star Wars mania and word of mouth had pretty much killed "The Devil's Own." It turned out that two other features, both low concept romantic comedies, were going heads-up with Val this very weekend. Still, even taking into account the weather and the sizable student population, I got the errie feeling that these carbon drones were really waiting in line to see a cheap Mission Impossible rip-off. Now don't get me wrong, I thought Mission Impossible was an James Bond rip-off, but at least it was expensive. I'd seen the trailers for "The Saint" --- lots of Kilmer in disguises, Elizabeth Shue acting vulnerable, and machine guns in every third shot. Enough of the plotline had trickled out to let everyone know that communism may be dead but those crazy Russians were up to something again. As contrived as it was, Mission Impossible killed Emilio Estevez in the first reel and then dusted Voight in the climax! The most one could look forward to with "The Saint" is allot gunplay and generic villains delivering cornball lines. Yet here I was locking my car door and strolling toward the theater. I walked quickly up the sidesteps and examined the lobby. The "Help Wanted" sign had been taken down so I had to assume the theater was no longer under-staffed. No matter. Two guys, both high school age, were grabbing cash and handing out tickets like trained seals at the box office. The concession stand was absolutely buried under five different lines of hungry movie-goers eager to pay the 300% markup for artery clogging popcorn. Quickly I counted out anyone at these two stations, they were too busy to notice me and hadn't batted an eye before when I did my thing. The assistant manager was a different story however. Standing in his red-vested monkey suit at the portal to the screens, he was mechanically ripping tickets and giving directions to the public. The Jedi Mind Trick had never worked on him, he took it way too personal to be influenced with any slick talking. The "backdoors", two wide corridors for exiting patrons that can be accessed from the front of the lobby, looked like the best bet. However, they were not without risk. If spotted by Monkey Boy assistant manager there would probably be a confrontation. The rest of the staff were getting paid 4.25 an hour and doing their level best to avoid bumping heads with anyone; especially someone that looked like they would make them feel stupid for even questioning. Monkey Boy was a different story, he had actually thwarted me and comrade just the day before at a four oclock showing of Star Wars. I opened the door and walked inside, finding a place at the back of a food line. Slowly drifted sideways, pretending to examine the Titanic hanging poster, and tried to scope the manager. I hadn't seen him here in weeks but I knew that he would be on-premises for a triple debut weekend. But where? There he was, coming out of the "Employees Only" door with a roll of greenbacks in his hand, looking flustered, annoyed, and constipated all at once. The day was going bad for him, he was probably scheduled off but had to show up when the place was swamped by unexpected interest in "The Saint." As he crossed to the ticket booth I made my move, sliding behind a tall potted plant just as Monkey Boy looked down to rip tickets and proceeding down the one way open corridor. The exposure time was less than three seconds but the familiar juice was still there - a hot rush that generated in my upper spine and flowed through my head until it began to resonate behind my eyes. I made a b-line for the theater where "The Saint" was playing but DAMN! ---there was a chick taking tickets right in front of the double doors. It was to late, having already committed I held my breath and just jump right in and walked straight past her. She didn't even acknowledge me. Once inside the viewing area my prediction was realize; the place was packed. I stood against the wall for a few minutes then sat it the last seat on the left in the last row. A few minutes after the designated start time the lights dimmed and the projector whirred to life. The movie began erratically in flashback. The weakest title card I have ever seen in my life tells us its: The Far East - Yesterday. Cool idea about the ambivalence of the timeline but the delivery is fundamental screwed by a generic block font that completely clashes with spirit of a spy adventure film. It turns out that The Saint is was once a nameless orphan with a gift for picking locks. He wreaks havoc at the orphanage and escapes one night but not before: (A) naming himself Simon Templar and (B)watching his first love dashed to pieces on a hardwood floor when she is knocked off a balcony by a couple of German Shepherds lead by the Evil Priest! Attack dogs hunting down away children? In a Catholic orphanage? It a little extreme even for the Far East. They couldnt expect us to buy that, could they? Yes, they actually did feel you would buy it because after that "The Saint" ventures into fields of ludicrous absurdity hitherto untrodden. Certain things can be bad but tragically comic at the same time. See Daylight and recently released Devils Own for examples of such camp. The Saint is so screwed up that you have to dig deep in the cluttered rough to find even the most tarnished chunk of iron sulfide. Needless to say the plot is Hollywood fools gold on a level of such utter banality that a I could spend hours peering into, and shining the light of day through, each and every plothole. The second title card fades in the words :Moscow - Tomorrow. Then some Russian oil magnate is shown goading his rebellious countrymen by mimicking Mark Anthony in his famous Caesar funeral dirge: "Friends, Countrymen, Russians!" The crowd assembled cheers and the screenwriters figured the crowd in the theater would shiver at the thought of yet more anarchist Russians controlling the power of nuclear life or death over us. Hell, Muscovites cant even feed themselves, so I aint worried about them too much; but i guess it's better than Islamic terrorists. Enter the orphan who has fashioned himself into a high-end thief who can scale walls, crack safes, and deliver cheesy one-liners with the best of them. Mr. Templar steals a important "microchip" from the Bad Russian Industrialist but not before creating a "jealous son" subplot that is never explore during the rest of the movie. Bad Russian Industrialist then hires The Saint to steal a new formula for creating free and endless energy. Enter Elizabeth Shue as, get this, a scientist who invents said workable cold fusion theory! In here first scene she stands, complete with schoolgirl skirt and bobby socks, and answers some questions posed by her colleagues on her invention. A vacuous actor playing a equally vacuous-looking rocket scientist queries "Could you explain the process of cold fusion?" All he left out was the part about "for the audience." Immediately Simon falls for the hot bookworm and has a moral dilemma when he steals the formula from his new found love. Should he turn the plans over to the Bad Russian Industrialist? Should he give it back? Before any of these questions can be explored the story once again degenerates into endless shots of Russian thugs running after Kilmer, Russian thugs shooting machine guns at Kilmer, or Russian thugs chasing Kilmer in a Range Rover. Did I say this movie was beyond bad? It gets worse. Example: the hip-hop, one-two-one soundtrack that makes you feel like you are attending some under 18 rave sponsored by Diet Pepsi. I must have checked my watch on at least a dozen different occasions. When the plot dragged to the point where it became painful I sat in on Jedi for a few minutes to try and remember what good, creative filmmaking was all about. As much as I'd like to have stayed and watch the Emperor try to turn Luke to the Dark Side of the Force I had to go back. After all, I had burn too many synapses plotting my ingress strategy to not see the majority of the flick I came to judge.
Back in cinematic hell I began to notice that the special devices, pre-requisites in an spy caper, were exceptional low budget and impractical. Though few of the gadgets worked miracles via blinking lights alone, apparently Templar still had the functionally inaccurate Macintosh laptop issued by the IM Force. Unfortunately old Simon should have considered what a better move it would have been to back up Ethan Hunt instead of going solo. Sure the money is better playing the field but the chance of a sequel are completely ruined. On a closing note I would like to say that Val Kilmer is pretty much my ideal Hollywood actor. I would cast him for one of my leads any day. Hes been Jim Morrison and Deniros sidekick (the only one to escape in "Heat"). Hes played an FBI agent and Batman with equal measures of aloof coolness. However in "The Saint" I fear that the idea of headlining has gone to his head; he executes with the carelessness and egotistical grandstanding of a bullfighter. Maybe it was the director or maybe the lines he was given affected the performance but I really expected more from the Iceman. Elizabeth Shue is a wasted completely and the Russian heavies were more comical than anything. All togather a bad, bad movie.
Rating: Kilmer arches his eyebrows and Shue bats her lashes. People fire machine guns endlessly with impunity. Fifty thousand dollar automobiles explode. Is it action or romance? Do you care?
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