Directed by Richard Loncraine

Written by Joe Forte

Starring: Harrison Ford, Virginia Madsen,

Paul Bettany and Alan Arkin

105 minutes in CinemaScope

Kidnapping goes high-tech, and petrified action hero Harrison Ford is again given an opportunity to display his A-to-B emotional range. Not only did Blade Runner prove that there was plenty of room (and need) for quality science fiction in Lucas Land, it also presented Ford with the opportunity to play a robot. It remains his most challenging and convincing performance to date.

Firewall is basically The Desperate Hours updated for the computer set. Ford is a high-powered banker whose family is held hostage and will not be released unless he agrees to electronically siphon millions to an offshore account. According to the script, all you need to become a highwayman on the information superhighway is an iPod and a crucial part from a fax machine.

Ford is fitted with electronic surveillance equipment (so the e-crooks can monitor his every move) and sent off to work, where his actions puzzle fellow employees. It doesn’t help that the day before, a collection agency goon showed up demanding $95,000 for alleged online gambling debts.

Through it all, Ford staunchly displays two modes of expression: pained and more pained. There is a scene early on where Ford sits in a boardroom with Robert Patrick, Robert Forester and Alan Arkin, and I couldn’t help but wonder if these three superior actors goofed on Harry when he got up to go to the bathroom.

As the leader of a gang of articulate, well-groomed and family-friendly urban terrorists, Paul Bettany is the type of villain you don’t take seriously until he makes an example of one of his mates. All I could think of while watching his performance was how superb Alan Rickman was when given a similar character to play in Die Hard. Virginia Madsen probably netted more from this film than it cost to make Sideways. It is disheartening to see such a talented actress being given so little to work with.

Ford is rapidly approaching Charles Bronson territory. The studios he aligns himself with may be more prestigious and their level of technical expertise strictly first cabin, but the decayed formula smells just the same. Not unlike Bronson, Indy Solo is a theorem: If there was no Harrison Ford, one would have been invented. He’ll be 65 when Indiana Jones strikes back next summer with one last, last crusade (Raiders of the Lost Bladder?). If Spielberg’s smart, he’ll amputate Ford and reattach Sean Connery.

The last 20 minutes of Firewall provides nonstop guffaws. Ford’s scenes opposite a dog would make Lassie leave home. When all is said and done, the film presented one burning question: Why kidnap the family pet? I can understand holding a sick kid hostage. How else is beginner screenwriter Joe Forte expected to shamefully wring bargain-basement pathos? Surprisingly, the reason Fido goes along for the ride is actually substantiated. Too bad that when it comes down to execution, the filmmakers roll over and play dead.

0 stars

Directed by Joe Roth

Adapted by Richard Price from his novel of

the same name

Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, Julianne

Moore, Edie Falco and William Forsythe

113 minutes in CinemaScope

Freedomland was written by Richard Price, an old hand at this sort of tough, urban drama (Bloodbrothers, The Wanderers, Clockers). He has also scripted one-and-a-third-and-a-quarter softer projects (The Color of Money, Life’s Lessons and the Michael Jackson music video “Bad”) for Mr. Scorsese. Here is one time you’ll complain about Price reduction.

A disoriented white woman (Julianne Moore) stumbles out of a park and into a poor black neighborhood claiming to be a victim of a carjacking. (Did someone order a Crash-lite?) Routinely tough-but-tender detective Samuel L. Jackson fields her account of an African-American thug forcing her from the vehicle. Almost as an afterthought, she informs Jackson that her 4-year-old son is still in the car. In the grand tradition of Flight Plan, we spend a good chunk of the film trying to decide whether or not she’s certifiable and what, if anything, happened to the kid.

If only the real police worked as fast as Revolution Studio’s art department. Within minutes of the kid’s disappearance, colorful “Have You Seen This Child” fliers literally litter the streets. Joining Jackson on the hunt is Edie Falco, playing a mother who heads up the local missing-children’s watchdog group. Given the backstory concerning her character’s tragic loss of a child, I was flabbergasted by her selfish pleas with Moore to confess in order to “put my heart at rest.”

The title refers to an abandoned, and painfully metaphoric, foundling asylum that could not help but work better on the printed page. On screen, it resembles Berlin after the war and offers director Roth countless camera set-ups. Coming from the man who brought us Christmas with the Kranks, it’s not surprising that the film attempts to establish suspense through hand-held camerawork and machine-gun edits.

If ever a film cried out for a low budget and a cast of relative newcomers in order to succeed, it’s this one. Instead, let’s once again trot out professional victim-for-hire Julianne Moore to emote her heart out. A superb actress, her patented suffering routine this time becomes insufferable. And then there’s Samuel L. Jackson. Even his Jedi affiliation can’t sour me against Sam. Technically, his line readings (and cocked porkpie hat) are flawless, but is Sam conscious of the slop he’s spewing, or was he struck dumb by all the zeros on his paycheck?

About 10 minutes prior to the final fade, numerous false endings – including a prolonged confession scene to explain everything to character and audience alike – kick in. File this as another cobblestone in that well-intentioned road to hell.

0 Stars

Directed by Shawn Levy

Written by Len Blum and Steve Martin

Starring: Steve Martin, Emily Mortimer,

Kevin Kline and Jean Reno

91 minutes

Always the first to carp about remaking good movies, imagine my shock and glee to report that, while it doesn’t come close to matching the madcap majesty of Blake Edwards’ best, the laughs were consistent.

Edwards masterminded the popular series in 1963, and wrote and directed all but two of the seven sequels. Mr. Edwards is credited, but had no hand in Pink Panther ’06’s creative process, which is probably a good thing.

The first four Panther films are all worth owning. Peter Sellers was peerless as the ridiculously self-confident, selectively-thinking Inspector Closeau. When he died in 1980, Edwards refused to let Closeau go with him. The series hit rock bottom by ghoulishly resurrecting Sellers through outtakes and deleted scenes from previous versions. Subsequent attempts to pump fresh life into the franchise proved unwatchable.

Steve Martin and co-writer Len Blum designed a prequel, and instead of simply tracing the original, PP ’06 gets its laughs by playing off its predecessor’s strengths. PP ’63’s funniest gag, Sellers vs. a whirling globe, is given an almost equally rib-tickling spin. Sellers’ fractured French accent is present, but his habit of turning “gold bowls” into “gild balls” is only once hinted at as Martin forges his own inappropriate inflections.

Next to Sellers, one of the Panther films’ most essential ingredients is tortuous physical comedy inflicted upon any and all characters, and there is no shortage of it here. Inspector Closeau was born hot on the heels of From Russia with Love’s release and the Kennedy assassination, and, at their best, the series captured that shadowy transition period between Camelot’s innocence and the aggressive cynicism of 007. (A pistol marked “Sleeping Darts” has campy exposition written all over it.)

The filmmakers acknowledge Closeau’s ’60s box-office rival by casting recently spurned 007 suitor Clive Owen as tuxedoed secret agent 006. Of the four replacement Closeaus (Alan Arkin, Ted Wass and the indefensible Roberto Benigni also had their turns), Martin is the George Lazenby of the bunch. (From where I come from, that’s a compliment.) He obviously has profound affection for and appreciation of Edwards’ blueprint, and both his performance and screenplay pack a lot of laughs.

Not all of it connects. The third-act gags become more disjointed, and the curtain joke needed work. (This sat on the shelf for months.) Director Shawn Levy is content to have fun. Second-unit Paris looks lovely, but too often Levy’s pace and timing lag behind Martin’s performance. Think of all the brilliant comedians forced to work with lead-footed directors (A. Edward Sutherland, Norman Z. McLeod and the appropriately named Sam Wood come to mind), and you’ll realize that Martin & Levy are just another example of the actor as author.

I warn you, if you have zero tolerance for slapstick, stay home and enjoy “The King of Queens.” If you don’t go in expecting the robust flavor of the originals, this taste of pink might just tickle your nose.

1/2