Movie review: Righteous Kill

by John P. Meyer

Michael Mann made an above-average crime thriller called Heat back in '95, but the promoters of Righteous Kill would rather we forgot about it.

Why? Because their ad campaign for the gritty Jon Avnet-directed police psychodrama under current scrutiny proclaims that De Niro and Pacino are "together at last." (Implying that they had never before appeared together onscreen.)

Call it sour grapes, but sourer still is the fact that this current screen project pairing the two tough-guy acting titans proves inferior to that earlier one.

[Interestingly, a scan of De Niro's credits on IMDB reveals an "in production" note to the effect that director Mann is orchestrating a video game version of his '95 movie, with a projected release date of 2009. De Niro, Pacino and Val Kilmer will apparently contribute vocal tracks and perhaps some sort of video semblance of their characterizations to the project.]

There are two big problems with Righteous Kill: 1) these two venerable talents are getting a tad long in the tooth to pull off the ass-kicking cop routine with any semblance of verisimilitude, and - more importantly - 2) the manipulative plot will have you feeling as though you're being played like a carp on ten pound test. (Sorry, Russell Gerwitz.)

We're told who the mad dog vigilante killer is at the very beginning of the narrative; then it's simply a matter of retracing the violent route he took to get where he is now - which is sitting in a room somewhere in front of a camera connected to a low-res video recording device, delivering a confession of sorts and elaborating on his homicidal deeds in the process.

Via flashback, the film sets us adrift on this narrative stream, introducing us in the process to a pair of veteran homicide dicks known as Turk (De Niro) and Rooster (Pacino), who we first meet as they're practicing their marksmanship on the police shooting range: like Glock-work, they shoot their way through the paper-punching regimen using pistols, then proceeding up the firepower ladder to the H&K MP5 - which punches a lot of holes in paper really fast.

At this point we're introduced to one of the more annoying stylistic idiosyncrasies of the directing/editing team of Avnet and Hirsch, which involves abrupt intercutting between - for instance - the tough old cops engaged in violent shooting sports and the tough old cops coaching a little league baseball team. Another signature move for these guys (I mean, the filmmakers) is the use of premature cuts, for lack of a better term, whereby our homicide detective pards are shown to be walking up to their unmarked car but not actually getting into it, and then we cut to them driving off somewhere. Then we don't actually see them getting OUT of the car at the prison complex, but we intuit by their sudden presence in the prison interview room that they have actually done so.

This technique at least has the virtue of moving things along at a rapid pace, which allows this to end up being a 100-minute-long mediocre cop thriller rather than a fully two-hour-long one. (Smart move.)

Going into too much detail about the plot would give away stuff you're not likely to figure out until about the third reel, so let's limit it to this:

Somebody (and - as mentioned - we're told who's responsible from the beginning) is acting as a vigilante, taking it upon himself to perforate the vitals of evildoers who would otherwise be getting away with their crimes. This individual may SOUND like he's doing a Dexter, but he's far messier than that worthy, leaving behind all sorts of evidence - such as the body and the murder weapon (a silenced .45 auto). Most notably, he styles himself a rude outlaw poet, planting verses scribbled onto an index card at each execution scene. While his words are not likely to earn him laureate status (or even a guest appearance on Oprah), they do bear a certain relevance to the particular act of homicide committed at the crime scene in which they are planted.

A quartet of cops is given the job of tracking down the murderous rhymin' Simon. Assigned to this mini task force by Lt. Hingis (Brian Dennehy, without much to do other than sticking his head in occasionally to glower) are Turk and Rooster, along with another detective duo comprised of Simon Perez (John Leguizamo) and Ted Riley (Donnie Wahlberg). Doing the behind-the-scenes lab work is smokin'-hot lady CSI (aren't they all? And what the heck's UP with that?) Karen Corelli (Carla Gugino).

Soon - very soon - this collection of New York's finest flatfeet becomes convinced that it's a cop behind the killings. Since Perez has a grudge against Turk because he (Turk) ran over him (Perez) in a softball game, he (Perez) decides the cop responsible must in fact be Turk (him). And as the circumstantial evidence begins to mount, he (Perez) shapes up to be right.

O.K., enough on that score. Speaking of score, Turk is carrying on an after-hours dalliance with Corelli, who prefers her bedtime activities a smidgen on the rough side. (Incongruously, she prefers to screw with her bra firmly in place - but then who's counting?) Also involved in the parallel plotline proceedings are a rapper/nightclub entrepreneur named Spider (50 Cent) and one of the more upscale clients supporting his lucrative under-the-counter blow trade: a flashy blond attorney named Jessica (Trilby Glover, convincing as a flashy blond, though we can't speak to the attorney part). Turk leverages his drug bust of Jessica into a sting operation designed to snag Spider.

The fabulous Melissa Leo has a walk-on role as a crack addicted single mom named Cheryl; her part could easily have been played by someone with a fraction of Melissa's acting chops. Watching her exit the frame for good after less than five minutes of screen time actually proves painful.

Regardless of the fact that all but the unconscious will have discerned the nature (if not the specifics) of the story's resolution by this juncture, it's still a bit of fun watching De Niro and Pacino square off to chew the abandoned warehouse scenery in the final act. And then there's the hardboiled gumshoe patois:

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