One of those crazed and deliberate gunmen we hear so much about lately enters a coffee shop in a Los Angeles suburb and begins plugging people one by one, including himself. This causes a couple of deaths and multiple psychological problems for the five survivors -- Kate Bekinsale as the waitress; Forest Whitaker as the self-destructive cancer patient; school girl Dakota Fanning and her friend Josh Hutcherson; and the doctor Guy Pearce. Each handles the post-traumatic stress in his or her own way.
It's all unremittingly depressing. Bekinsale seems to somehow contaminate her infant and he wails all the time, disrupting her life. Whitaker heads for the nearest casino and recklessly bets until he wins something like one hundred large before losing it all, having to borrow from the mob to continue his spree, and then being battered when he can't pay it back on time. Fanning turns into a religion freak who carries around in her head a faulty recollection of her father's bravery in the café. Hutcherson, who has a lesser role, becomes mute. Pearce, who was leaving the café as the killer entered and actually held the door open for him, mixes some kind of potient for his migraine-ridden wife that almost kills her.
None of the performances can be faulted. They're all professional and some, like Fanning's, Pearce's, and Whitakers, are rather better than that.
But good performances don't relieve the gloom, and the ending is improbable, to understate the fact. For instance, I don't know how Whitaker manages to pull a check for one hundred thousand dollars out of his sock at the end, when we'd been led to believe he'd lost it all and quite a bit more. And it's difficult to imagine how elective mutism is going to clear up if the patient hears someone else talk about the precipitating event. And I don't know what Pearce did to his wife's soup -- or why he did it. Yet it all ends happily, so to speak, with a brief philosophical obiter dictum by Fanning that sounds fine, what with "pieces falling into place," but explains nothing.
Post-traumatic stress is a serious condition and it deserves the serious treatment it gets here. It's too often dismissed as some perverted form of self pity, but it was genuine enough to ruin Audie Murphy's life -- that's Audie Murphy, kids, the most decorated soldier of World War II (and movie actor) whom no one would accuse of feeling sorry for himself. And I've interviewed Vietnam veterans in the VA hospital in Palo Alto who were near suicide because of survivor's guilt.
In any case, I'd applaud this film because, in spite of its weaknesses, it was made for adult viewing and there's virtually no sex and no brains being blown out. I would imagine that for many of today's viewers, that presents something of a challenge. If you want to see a similar movie, but a better one, with no clapped-together simple ending, see if you can get a copy of the Canadian feature, "The Sweet Hereafter."
It's all unremittingly depressing. Bekinsale seems to somehow contaminate her infant and he wails all the time, disrupting her life. Whitaker heads for the nearest casino and recklessly bets until he wins something like one hundred large before losing it all, having to borrow from the mob to continue his spree, and then being battered when he can't pay it back on time. Fanning turns into a religion freak who carries around in her head a faulty recollection of her father's bravery in the café. Hutcherson, who has a lesser role, becomes mute. Pearce, who was leaving the café as the killer entered and actually held the door open for him, mixes some kind of potient for his migraine-ridden wife that almost kills her.
None of the performances can be faulted. They're all professional and some, like Fanning's, Pearce's, and Whitakers, are rather better than that.
But good performances don't relieve the gloom, and the ending is improbable, to understate the fact. For instance, I don't know how Whitaker manages to pull a check for one hundred thousand dollars out of his sock at the end, when we'd been led to believe he'd lost it all and quite a bit more. And it's difficult to imagine how elective mutism is going to clear up if the patient hears someone else talk about the precipitating event. And I don't know what Pearce did to his wife's soup -- or why he did it. Yet it all ends happily, so to speak, with a brief philosophical obiter dictum by Fanning that sounds fine, what with "pieces falling into place," but explains nothing.
Post-traumatic stress is a serious condition and it deserves the serious treatment it gets here. It's too often dismissed as some perverted form of self pity, but it was genuine enough to ruin Audie Murphy's life -- that's Audie Murphy, kids, the most decorated soldier of World War II (and movie actor) whom no one would accuse of feeling sorry for himself. And I've interviewed Vietnam veterans in the VA hospital in Palo Alto who were near suicide because of survivor's guilt.
In any case, I'd applaud this film because, in spite of its weaknesses, it was made for adult viewing and there's virtually no sex and no brains being blown out. I would imagine that for many of today's viewers, that presents something of a challenge. If you want to see a similar movie, but a better one, with no clapped-together simple ending, see if you can get a copy of the Canadian feature, "The Sweet Hereafter."