Weekly meditations from your humble messenger
Not
So Brave
(The Brave One, 9/24/07)
By Nicholas Nicastro
Contact.
Panic Room. Flightplan. All are vehicles for Jodie Foster, and all
of them are slick productions with solid talent to back up their star.
The list is also, aesthetically speaking, about as exciting as a stack
of grilled cheese sandwiches—it's hard to remember the last time
Foster was associated with a film (The Accused? Nell?)
that took any sort of artistic risk. Foster has one of the most stubbornly
devoted fan bases of anyone in Hollywood—a corps that would very
likely follow her anywhere she wants to go. But instead of developing
her talent, Foster looks intent on managing herself into a comfortable
retirement.
We can now add Neil Jordan's The
Brave One to the yawnfest. It's being sold as an edgy urban psychodrama
with a social message, but fundamentally it is a revenge flick, albeit
of the "lethal chick" subgenre (cf. Gloria, Thelma &
Louise, Kill Bill). Foster plays Erica Bain, a New York City radio
personality who has everything—fiance, money, fulfilling career—until
she is the victim of a violent attack in Central Park. Her illusion
of security shattered, Erica's life falls apart—until she buys
a 9mm semiautomatic, and indulges her impulse to walk the streets at
night, looking for opportunities to blow away (male) scumbags.
Becoming Bernard Goetz with better
cheekbones comes at a cost. Poor Erica finds that killing folks is exciting,
but also has a corrosive effect on her humanity. Fretting and hand-wringing
over what she has become, she flirts with turning herself in to the
detective assigned to her case (Terrence Howard). How that cat-and-mouse
game is resolved, and whether Erica ever catches up with the thug who
stole her dog, won't be divulged here, except to say that the ending
seems as preposterous as it is socially questionable.
Director Jordan, who has done more
interesting work elsewhere (The Crying Game, Mona Lisa), dwells
lovingly on the outward signs of Erica's personal apocalypse—the
hollow-eyed insomnia, the mute pleas for help. The film wants to seem
thoughtful because its heroine is conflicted, and many viewers will
certainly buy into the idea that The Brave One offers some kind
of insightful comment on urban violence in America.
But putting a distraught feminist
icon instead of Charles Bronson behind the trigger doesn't necessarily
make this kind of story fresh or relevant. It isn't even particularly
feminist—pistol packin' mommas, after all, figure prominently in
male wish-fulfillment, not female (just ask Quentin Tarantino). Indeed,
Erica's pangs of conscience seem to function as much to keep her a "likeable"
vigilante as they do to provoke interesting questions. Revenge isn't
so fulfilling? Justifiable homicide no defense against guilt? Last time
these were radical new themes, actors strutted the stage wearing buskins.
All this is particularly ironic
in Foster's case, as she was first propelled to stardom in Taxi Driver,
one of the classic vigilante films. Travis Bickle never wrung his hands,
never sought catharsis fully-clothed in a shower, yet he was far more
compelling than Foster's articulate, confessional radio jock. Foster
herself alluded to the problem with The Brave One on her recent
appearance on the Daily Show: she told Jon Stewart that having
a female crime victim turn her anger outward instead of destroying herself
not just unusual, but "strangely satisfying." Now that's interesting.
Unfortunately, Jordan and Foster are too worried about having us "root"
for their heroine to show us enough of that troubling satisfaction.
©2007 Nicholas Nicastro
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