Nearly 13 years ago, Pulp Fiction blasted its way into theaters and altered the course of modern cinema. Whether he wanted to or not, Quentin Tarantino inspired a generation of filmmakers hell-bent on emanating the same level of cool Pulp Fiction exerted so effortlessly. Enter a whole smattering of movies brimming with snappy dialogue, hyper-editing and endlessly twisting and turning plots.
The result in post-Tarantino cinema has been an unspoken competition of shock and awe, a long-running game of who can out-pulp Pulp Fiction. At least so far, only Tarantino himself has been able to do so, without ever compromising the substance behind his oft-imitated style.
And so, in the tradition of QT’s brand of crime-drama-on-speed, director Joe Carnahan (Narc) brings us Smokin’ Aces, a feature that strives to upstage its influences by being louder, gorier and blunter than any of its predecessors.
What a mess.
The plot, at first, seems simple enough. Buddy “Aces” Israel (Jeremy Piven of HBO’s Entourage), a Las Vegas entertainer-turned-gangster, has cut a deal with the FBI to testify against Mafiosi Primo Sparazza. With the Sparazza family under surveillance, two FBI agents (Ray Liotta, Identity, and Ryan Reynolds, Just Friends) discover the ailing Sparazza’s intentions to assassinate Israel.
Certainly not the most compelling story, but it could have worked as an adequate set-up.
But loyalty runs thin in Smokin’ Aces, and one of Sparazza’s men seeks outside help to pull off the murder. Word gets out that Israel’s days are numbered, and several groups and individuals go in pursuit in one giant crapshoot to collect on the money offered for Israel’s death.
Thus begin the extensive backstories. One by one, mostly through the mouth of bail bondsman Jack Dupree (Ben Affleck, Hollywoodland), the crowded cast of characters gets introduced, complete with freeze-frames and name tags and booming rock ‘n’ roll introductions.
To say that Smokin’ Aces was conceived sloppily would be unfair – the movie is most certainly contrived. Characters brush shoulders in outrageous circumstances, and every piece of the puzzle slides together as everyone convenes at the lavish hotel on Lake Tahoe where Israel wastes away what could be his final days.
Or are Israel’s final days actually hours, or possibly even minutes? Time and logic make little difference to Carnahan, who also scripted Aces. His focus (perhaps “focus” is the wrong word; “obsession” might be more appropriate for such a haphazard movie) from start to finish is an unhindered overdose on so-called style, the kind of flashiness derived from the few music videos still played on MTV.
The screen time gets clumsily divided among the many players, so dedication to any one side story becomes impossible. Death and critical injury occur frequently and without impact to a group of characters with less depth than a kiddie pool. Carnahan’s assembled cast resembles a laundry list of comic book clichés – as imitations of characters created by Frank Miller (Sin City) and Guy Ritchie (Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels; Snatch), they fall pathetically short.
The disloyal Sparazza mobsters first tap Georgia Sykes (Alicia Keys in her film debut) and Sharice Watters (Taraji P. Henson, Four Brothers) to eliminate Israel, but quickly and without explanation, a whole trove of sinister hired-hands hone in on the job, including The Tremors, a gang of hillbilly neo-Nazi gunmen, and other less-memorable butchers.
After a great deal of gratuitous bloodshed and lousy plotting, the Feds and the assassins have it out in the hotel, moving from one floor to another, spraying bullets and brains until they reach Israel’s penthouse suite for the grand finale.
As Israel, Piven simply spouts off Carnahan’s mile-a-minute dialogue, expressing very little besides the widely accepted notion that Israel is (gasp) a jerk. Carnahan seems to want to convey some sort of internal struggle behind Israel’s messy beard and cocaine eyes, but ultimately, Israel appears to be someone who very much deserves what is coming to him.
While providing a testosterone-driven, high-octane train wreck of a movie, the director/screenwriter forgot to supply his audience with the smallest reason to care about what happens to Buddy Israel – or any of the other characters, for that matter. It is unclear whether we are supposed to laugh or cringe at their horrific deaths, and in a film without any consistent tone or emotion, neither reaction seems appropriate.
Like a sloppy drunk, Aces yaps away loudly and vulgarly, stumbling all the way through – the movie is completely predictable in its forced unpredictability. The suspenseful moments are cheap and manipulative and, in the end, not so suspenseful. Everything builds up to a final big surprise, the one that will tie every loose end together. Unfortunately, Carnahan presents the ladies and gentlemen in the audience with the ultimate in failed The Usual Suspects moments.
Andy Garcia (The Lost City), hamming it up to no end as FBI agent Stanley Locke, receives the honor of delivering the last awful punctuation to an exhausting run-on sentence of a movie that never knows when to call it quits.
Parading under the guise of an edgy and smart thriller, Smokin’ Aces is truly a grotesque bomb if there ever were one, moving at light speed toward nowhere in particular. Without any sense of self-awareness to its utter ridiculousness and no tongue-in-cheek attitude to elevate it to the ranks of exploitation film, Smokin’ Aces crashes hard and fast, missing the irony all the while.
Contact reporter Zachary Herrmann at herrmanndbk@gmail.com.