187
A film review by David N. Butterworth
Copyright 1997 David N. Butterworth/The Summer Pennsylvanian
Rating: ** (Maltin scale)
Since his star-making turn in 1994's "Pulp Fiction," Samuel L. Jackson has been slowly leveraging himself into the forefront of the American moviegoers' consciousness. Therefore it's something of a surprise that his latest vehicle, "187" ("One Eight Seven"), a sincere yet cookie-cutter look at how hard it really is to be a teacher, has crept into the back-end-of-summer releases with very little fanfare.
Jackson's performance is typically commendable, but there's nothing new to be learned from this seen-it-all-before movie experience.
When Trevor Garfield (Jackson), a high-school science teacher in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of New York, flunks one of his students, the kid takes it personally, perforating Garfield in the back with a nail the way one would tenderize a nice flank steak. Fifteen months later, a recovered Garfield transfers to L.A., but quickly learns that academic achievement is not a high priority for the underprivileged youths of John Quincy Adams High, where he signs on as a substitute.
Stubbornness and a passion for teaching compel Garfield to stand his ground, winning the affection of Computer Science instructor Ellen Henry (Kelly Rowan) and the ire of many a disenfranchised student, including one particularly confrontational punk, Cesar (convincingly played by Clifton Gonzalez Gonzalez). In an environment where staying alive takes precedence over educational excellence, Garfield soon finds himself a man on the verge of breaking point. Again.
The number 187 (police code for homicide), by the way, shows up at the beginning and end of the film, first scrawled threateningly throughout one of Garfield's textbooks ("When a student says they're going to kill you, you believe them") and lastly scratched in his car's paintjob, when events lead to a contrived and over-the-top finale that is every bit as uncomfortable as it is stupid.
Director Kevin Reynolds, whom many thought wouldn't work in this town again after the much-maligned "Waterworld," displays some creativity in his burned-out depiction of an East L.A. scorched by apathy and hate. It's like a brick-red, jump-cutting Pepsi ad, with students literally coming into focus as the lightbulbs spark in their tiny minds. But where the film fails is in its writing.
"One in nine teachers," the statisticians choose to inform us at the onset of the film's end credits, "are attacked in their schools. Ninety-five per cent of those attacks are by students." But perhaps the most jarring statistic is this: "A teacher wrote this film."
Screenwriter Scott Yagemann, although having spent seven years teaching in the Los Angeles public school system, presents a viewpoint so devoid of originality that it makes you wonder how this film ever got financed. An insider should have shown us something we haven't seen before, not a pale imitation of such standout films as "The Blackboard Jungle" or "Stand and Deliver." True, the casting of Jackson in the lead might draw a crowd (as at one of Philadelphia's few remaining Center City movie houses, where audience participation is on a par with "Let's Make a Deal"). But while Jackson gets a B+ for his solid, dominating performance, "187" should have been held back.
-- David N. Butterworth dnb@mail.med.upenn.edu
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