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ANTITRUST
3/10
USA
2001
director
: Peter Howitt
script : Howard Franklin
cinematography : John Bailey
editing : Zach Staenberg
lead actors : Ryan Philippe, Tim Robbins, Claire Forlani, Rachael Leigh
Cook
110 minutes
There
are two things that make Antitrust* difficult to actively dislike
– though they aren’t enough to make the film actually any good.
One is very prominent: Tim Robbins’ hilarious performance as Gary Winston,
a genius software billionaire whose initials not-so-coincidentally reverse
those of a certain real-life genius software billionaire. The other is
a throwaway in-joke: during a news report in which three of Winston’s
violent henchmen are identified, we briefly see their surnames – Sheringham,
Schmeichel, Soljskaer. For anybody still none the wiser, these are three
top recent footballers for Manchester United. Peter Howitt, Antitrust’s
director, is from Liverpool, and as such sees Man-U as bitter rivals.
This
is Howitt’s follow-up to his surprise trans-Atlantic hit Sliding Doors
– it’s his first American movie, and judging by its disastrous US box-office
returns, it may well be his last. It’s also part of an unfortunate run
of bombs for Rachael Leigh Cook, along with Get Carter, Blow
Dry and Josie and the Pussycats. Maybe she should just
stay away from UK talent – both Carter and Josie featured
Alan Cumming, Blow Dry was made and set in Yorkshire, and, in addition
to Howitt behind the camera, Antitrust features English starlet
Claire Forlani, who’s been a thoroughly convincing Yank in flops like
Mallrats and Meet Joe Black. Both actresses are in dire
need of a hit, and show enough talent in their underwtitten Antitrust
roles to suggest they deserve better.
It’s
hard to be quite so charitable about the movie’s nominal ‘star,’ the increasingly
irritating Ryan Philippe - “I don’t think he knows how to act,”
comments a character here in a classic hostage-to-fortune aside.
Philippe
wasn’t at all convincing as a hotheaded criminal in Way of the Gun,
but at least his bulked-up physique fitted the character – here, he’s
a self-proclaimed computer geek, and we never see him do any kind
of exercise, let alone the strenuous working-out indicated by his bulging
biceps. Then again, Antitrust follows the long-standing Hollywood
rule that any film about super-intelligent people must itself be cringingly
moronic.
The
half-baked ‘plot’ sees Robbins poaching hunky nerd Philippe to work on
some amazing new software system – but Philippe soon discovers that behind
his boss’s genial, Pringle-munching features lurks a ruthless megalomaniac,
stealing everyone else’s ideas and murdering whoever gets in his way.
The plagiarism angle is, let’s say, intriguing, given Antitrust’s
occasionally startling resemblances to the 1996 Charlie Sheen sci-fi conspiracy
thriller The Arrival…
There
is a decent picture lurking somewhere here, but, unfortunately
for Howitt and co, it’s a comedy. Whenever Robbins is on screen, even
when he’s up to some fiendish act, there’s a cheeky energy about the picture
that makes it surprisingly enjoyable - he does a subtle, fuzzy ‘thing’with
his voice, a vaguely computerish burr that, along with his sandy hair
and pale features, give Gary just the right kind of hologrammatic haziness.
But the movie doesn’t realise its own strengths, and heads down increasingly
predictable ‘thriller’ routes, with Philippe wondering who he can trust
– his ‘artist’ girlfriend (Forlani) or his doe-eyed colleague (Cook)?
There are endless shots of computer language zipping across monitor screens,
with crashingly ‘dramatic’ music dolloped all over the place in a desperate
attempt to build tension. Similarly, Howitt indulges in all kinds of distracting,
over-elaborate camerawork – there’s one especially rotten argument scene
between Philippe and Forlani where the camera keeps circling the squabbling
couple to no apparent effect, apart from inspiring audience nausea.
Everything
is just so depressingly clunky : we’re told early on that Philippe has
a potentially fatal allergy to sesame seeds, which of course leads to
a supposedly ‘suspenseful’ scene later on when he suspects he’s about
to be poisoned, and surreptitiously scratches his arm with a fork, rubbing
in the suspect sauce to see if his skin inflames. Played for laughs, it
might just work. Played for suspense, it’s laughable.
Even
so, it’s nothing compared with the asinine ludicrousness of the ending,
in which Robbins’ vile activities are broadcast to the world by Philippe’s
hacker friends - the montage of black-and-white images and blaring on-screen
headlines come across like Michael Moore on acid. Except not so much fun.
24th
April, 2001
by Neil
Young
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