Armored

Roger Ebert has long maintained a tongue-in-cheek movie "glossary" which doesn't define terms like "best boy" or "grip" but does point out illogical or overused movie cliches that have become so standard that the casual viewer rarely questions or even notices them. After watching Armored -- a highly entertaining and surprisingly intelligent action picture -- I consulted Ebert's movie glossary and was surprised to find a glaring omission. I'll call it the "Nobody Gets Hurt" Rule, which goes something like this: In any movie in which a heist, kidnapping, or other intricately plotted crime is planned, if the promise that "nobody gets hurt" is made, it's pretty much a given that by the end of the movie, a whole helluva lot of people are going to be hurt if not outright killed.

In Armored, the promise that nobody will get hurt is made to Ty Hackett (Columbus Short), a rookie security guard for Eagle Shield Security. Eagle Shield specializes in transporting large amounts of cash to and from banks, and this movie plays like a response to anyone who has ever wondered if the armored car drivers are ever tempted to dip their hands in the pot.

No doubt about it, Hackett needs the money. He's a good man who has been hit hard by the current financial crisis, trying to raise a rebellious younger brother who's still in school. Hackett worries about having enough money to buy food, let alone pay off the two mortgages he's facing, and in his words, the letters from the bank are getting "very ugly."

His best friend is Mike Cochrane (Matt Dillon), who acts like a big brother to Hackett, and sincerely despairs when he thinks of Hackett's financial woes. Mike thinks he has the answer, inspired by a legendary armored truck robbery which Mike theorizes to be an inside job. Mike's plan is fairly detailed, but basically comes down to stealing the money during a particularly large shipment, and then blaming the money's theft on non-existent thieves. Mike recruits his charismatic but trigger-happy brother-in-law Baines (Laurence Fishburne), as well as three Eagle Shield buddies, Dobbs (Skeet Ulrich), Palmer (Amaury Nolasco), and Quinn (Jean Reno). Hackett is the final recruit, but despite the fact that he seems to need the money the most, he's got moral qualms, and reluctantly agrees to take part in the heist only when Social Services comes calling and threatens to take his brother away unless Hackett proves that he can financially provide for him.

"Nobody gets hurt?" Hackett asks. "Nobody gets hurt," Mike promises, but to quote Robert Burns, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

I won't get into just how or why they go awry for this group of men, because I don't want to spoil the fun. But without getting into plot details, I do want to make some observations about how this movie unfolds -- or rather, how it doesn't unfold. First of all, there are very few Big Wow moments. Action movies love to stuff themselves with Big Wow moments -- amazing stunts, jaw-dropping plot twists, massive explosions, etc. The scriptwriter, James V. Simpson, simply isn't interested in any of that. Nor is he interested in suspension of disbelief: in Simpson's world, people can't pound on each other without getting hurt, and gunshot wounds are bloody, messy, and far too agonizing to be shrugged off with a few well-chosen wise-cracks. In other words, if an armored truck heist really did turn out to be an inside job, it really might play out the way it does in this movie.

The third thing Simpson isn't interested in is cliche. Most action movies -- even most good action movies, heck, even most of the best action movies -- are filled to the brim with cliche. Yet after poring over Ebert's glossary of movie cliches -- which really is quite exhaustive -- the only one I could find in Armored was the Principle of Pedestrian Pathology, which reads, "Whenever a character on foot is being pursued by one in a car, the pedestrian inevitably makes the mistake of running down the middle of the street, instead of ducking down a narrow alley, into a building, behind a telephone pole, etc. All that saves such pedestrians is the fact that in such scenes the character on foot can always outrun the car."

Yes, it's a stupid thing to happen, but it happens so frequently in action films that we've come to accept it. When you watch this movie, note the twist Simpson gives to the Principle of Pedestrian Pathology. It's an applause-worthy moment.

One final thought: I'm quite sure that you're supposed to overlook this, but I couldn't help but notice that every single one of the major characters -- good guys and bad guys alike -- would have been much better off if the hero had simply cooperated with the bad guys from the beginning. Friendship could have prevailed, injuries could have been avoided, lives could have been saved, money could have been made. Everything bad that happens to anybody in this movie is less a result of the criminal plot, and more a result of the hero's insistence to do the right thing. I seriously doubt that's an intentional message of the film. But it makes you think.

The Lawyers, the Inmates, & the Lone Gunmen

note: This review concerns four television series that are no longer on the air. In the world of DVD, I consider no review "out of date," so I shall proceed.

Last night, I saw two crossover TV episodes back to back. They were both entertaining, but only the first was entertaining in a good way; the latter was like watching a train wreck -- you want to stop watching, but can't keep yourself from staring at the whole damn mess.

A crossover, for those who may be unfamiliar with the term, is a television episode that involves characters from more than one series. The first one I watched last night was "Unusual Suspects," an episode of The X-Files (a show I've never been that into, despite some part of me admiring it) featuring a guest appearance by Richard Belzer, reprising his role as Detective John Munch. Sadly, most people now know Munch as a minor character on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, but back when "Unusual Suspects" aired, he was a regular character on Homicide: Life on the Street, a show which allowed a lot more of Munch's personality to shine through.

"Unusual Suspects" is unusual for an X-Files episode, as it doesn't focus on the two usual main characters (perhaps the reason for the otherwise enigmatic title) of the series; instead, the focus is shifted on John F. Byers, Langly, and Melvin, three supporting characters collectively known as "the Lone Gunmen" (and yes, they are aware of the oxymoronic nature of such a name).

A flashback episode, "Unusual Suspects" explains the origins of the Lone Gunmen -- how they met each other, how they met Agent Mulder (David Duchovny), how they were first introduced to the concept of government conspiracies, and even how they got their collective nickname. All of this is probably immensely rewarding for fans of The X-Files, filling in gaps that even long-time viewers most likely didn't even realize needed filling. But here's the thing, it also works on another level: The episode is a damn good story in its own right. You don't have to know a single thing about Homicide or The X-Files or any of their characters or on-going story arcs, and yet you can still enjoy "Unusual Suspects" as an independent story about three strangers who form an unlikely friendship while agreeing to help an archetypal damsel in distress, only to discover that her initial story of being stalked by a "psychotic" ex-boyfriend is merely a cover for entangling them in a layered web of government conspiracy and intrigue.

"Unusual Suspects" is so entertaining that, if I were to grade it on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd be tempted to give it a 10. Unfortunately, I have to downgrade it to a 9, because it does completely fail to explore its potential as a crossover episode. Munch's role is so minimal that his appearance is almost more frustrating than titillating, and if the Lone Gunmen had really been arrested by the Baltimore Homicide Unit that included Munch, then Homicide would have interrogated all three of the geeks to compare their stories. Had the writers of the episode followed this logic, then viewers would have been treated with two more Homicide characters making cameos, although perhaps the writers felt that would distract from the episode's main story.

In truth, this one complaint I have for the episode is indeed a minor flaw, and one which was made for artistically valid reasons. Compare the entertaining, skillfully written "Unusual Suspects" with the grating, inconsistent "The Inmates" to see how quickly a crossover idea can go downhill.

On the surface, Ally McBeal and The Practice seem like two shows that were almost (and perhaps were) destined to exist in a shared narrative right from the moment of their debuts. Both shows are written by David E. Kelley, both shows are about Boston lawyers, and while Ally McBeal is a comedy with serious themes, The Practice is a drama with a sense of humor -- a seemingly thin line which Kelley turns out to stumble over completely when he tries to cross the Practice lawyers over into an episode of Ally McBeal.

The story involves Marie Hanson, a woman who hires the law firm Cage & Fish to defend her on a murder charge. Marie's been receiving psychiatric treatment for inexplicable black-outs, and claims to have no memory of the moments during which her husband was hacked to bits with an axe. In other words, she claims that she's not even sure if she's the culprit, and if she is, she wasn't responsible for her actions. Despite the client thus laying the groundwork for her own defense, the good lawyers at Cage & Fish realize that they're not cut out for grisly murder cases, and so hire outside counsel to help with the defense. That's where the lawyers from The Practice come in.

Right from the very first moment that brings in the Practice characters, director Michael Schultz and writer David E. Kelley start to sabotage their own work. Before they even have any reason to (and they will eventually have plenty of reasons), the Practice lawyers stare at John Cage and Richard Fish like they're from outer space, firmly establishing from the get-go that these characters, despite all surface appearances, don't seem to belong in the same reality. On the one hand, you've got the Ally McBeal characters, with all of their eccentricities and quirks which, combined, work (or don't work, depending on your comic tastes) in a comedy, but in reality would land many of them in the nut-house. On the other hand, you've got the Practice characters, essentially good people who have hardened themselves out of necessity, in their grim battle for justice.

Left to their own devices, each group of characters emerges as likable and sympathetic, but when placed in direct contrast, everyone becomes merely obnoxious. Everyone at the firm of Cage & Fish comes across as annoying, incompetent, and unprofessional, while Bobby Donnell and his associates, with their cold, steely resolve, come across as harsh, judgmental, and even sleazy. When Ally defends her firm, stating that she and her colleagues like the idea of being able to one day look into the eyes of their (hypothetical) children with clear conciences, Bobby rightfully fires back that they all may be nice people, but "if she's found guilty, it's not going to help our client to learn that her lawyers can hug and hold hands."

Ouch. No wonder these people can't play nice even when they try. When Bobby intimidates a potential witness into agreeing to testify, he then casually tells Ally, "now you can good cop him," and the Cage & Fish lawyers are appalled. Billy claims that their outrage is due to the fact that Bobby never let them in on the good cop/ bad cop strategy beforehand, but to the viewer, it's clear that the real reason Ally and Billy are uncomfortable with Bobby's tactics is because they view it as bullying. At this point, you start to see Bobby's point about how the lawyers at Cage & Fish are so concerned about being nice that they would make for crappy lawyers -- and yet he still comes across as a jerk and a sleaze when he later tells the client to dump Cage & Fish. It's a betrayal which makes sense, but a betrayal nevertheless.

The one character who suffers the most is Billy Alan Thomas. As the reliable straight man on Ally McBeal, he would seem to be the most likely candidate to fit in with the Practice characters, and in a key scene, he even complains that he should be operating on their level; he's talking about his skills as a lawyer, but there's an unintended yet clear subtextual claim that the character might be more at home on the other series. But no, he wouldn't. Here we realize that he's too ambitious and serious to fit in with his Cage & Fish colleagues, but too naive to fit in with the lawyers on the other show. "I'm embarrassed to work here!" he shouts to his bosses at one point, and while we can't blame him for feeling that way, we also know the law firm featured on the other show would have no use for him. Talk about the opposite of having your cake and eating it too!

The real problem here is that director Schultz and writer Kelley can't make up their minds about whether this is supposed to be funny or serious. (In later projects, Kelley would prove masterful at compromising between comedy or drama, but he certainly fails to do so here.) At first, it's funny to watch the Practice characters react to the wackiness of the characters from the other show, but Bobby and his colleagues take everything so seriously that said wackiness eventually comes across as simply unrealistic.

Example: Ally takes a prat-fall, her third in front of Bobby. So far, no problem, because prat-falls are typical for the comical world of Ally McBeal. But actor Dylan McDermott, who can be funny when given the chance, doesn't react comically, or even as a deadpan straight man, which would have supported the laugh that actress Calista Flockhart was going for. He instead just stares at Ally with confusion, so humorlessly that I fully expected him to observe "you fall down a lot." He just doesn't get it, because prat-falls are common in comedy, but completely alien to Bobby's world of heavy drama. Reality is somewhere in between; Ally might trip over her high heels, but she couldn't then fall flat on her face without getting hurt. And that's a perfect metaphor for this episode as a whole.

Leaping Into Controversy

A while back -- back when my blogs were published through MySpace, the online equivalent of saying when dinosaurs roamed the Earth -- I blasted Star Trek: Voyager for their episode "Repentance." I called it "a misguided, one-sided, unsubtle treatise on the death penalty, loosely disguised as entertainment," and I stand by that assessment. Now it's time for a similar review, although this time the controversy at hand is Gays in the Military, and the sci-fi show under question is Quantum Leap.

Now, before I go any further, I must establish that this rant isn't coming from a hater; Quantum Leap has always been one of my favorite shows, with compelling writing, excellent production, an intriguing premise, and likable characters. And all of these qualities can be found in "Running for Honor," the episode under question.

For those of you who don't know, Quantum Leap is about Sam Beckett, a time traveler who leaps into people's bodies (sort of like a temporary possession), fixes their lives up, and then moves on to the next leap through time. The show never shied away from controversial subject matter, a fact which eventually led to its cancellation when, despite strong ratings, sponsors pulled away from the show one by one until it was no longer commercially viable.

In "Running for Honor," Sam leaps into the body of Tommy York, a cadet at the prestigious naval academy Prescott College. On the surface, Tommy's life seems just about perfect: He's an honor roll student in line for valedictorian, he's got lots of friends, he's the school's biggest track star in generations, and he's even dating the dean's daughter -- with the dean's full approval. Things couldn't be rosier.

Yet beneath the veneer of perfection lies a reality of danger, intrigue, and prejudice. Tommy's roommate Phillip, who had (apparently single-handedly) published the campus paper, has recently been kicked out of the college for being gay. Sam discovers that Phillip and Tommy have been conducting an investigation to expose the CHAIN, a group of masked cadets who secretly bully rumored homosexual classmates into leaving Prescott. Sam also learns that CHAIN is comprised of Tommy's track team buddies, which pretty much makes it impossible for Sam/ Tommy to remain friends with both Phillip and his teammates. Sam has to make a choice, and he chooses Phillip, thus earning the absolute hatred of CHAIN. Tommy's former friends immediately turn on him, with beatings, threats, false accusations, and even a mock execution that comes dangerously close to being all-too real.

Phillip is alternately brave and cowardly, altruistic and selfish. As viewers, we are encouraged to judge him by his actions rather than by his sexual orientation. Similarly, the CHAIN thugs are villainous due to their loathsome attitudes and tactics, rather than their political position. Yet script writer Bobby Duncan has definitely chosen a position of his own, and he is unashamedly in favor of -- or at the absolute least, sympathetic towards -- gays in the military. This is made clear by the fact that our hero, Sam, vehemently defends the right of homosexuals to serve. Over the years that the show has been on the air, we have grown to love -- and, more to the point, identify with Sam, so when he gets offended by homophobia, we are implicitly encouraged to be offended as well.

Personally, I feel that I don't know enough about the "Gays in the Military" issue to pass a learned judgment; I know nothing about being gay, and nothing about being in the military, but my gut instinct tells me that if there's a problem with gays in the military, the problem lies with the homophobes more than the gays. But what do I know? I only know this: On Facebook, I recently asserted that "if you're going to address a controversy, you should either be neutral or take a side, but don't PRETEND to be neutral in a disguised attempt to discredit your opponent. That's just disgraceful." I stand by that assertion. Integrity depends on not just what your views are, but also -- and perhaps more-so -- on how you express those views.

And that leads to what I disliked about "Running for Honor": The episode, despite the clear leanings of writer Duncan in favor of gays in the military, does make a half-assed attempt to present the opposing viewpoint. There is one scene in which Admiral Spencer, the dean of Prescott College (and, don't forget, the father of Tommy's girlfriend) gets involved in the conflict between Sam and CHAIN. Faced with the accusation that Sam / Tommy is gay, the dean is forced to use disciplinary action against Sam. The dean is presented as a sympathetic character: he sincerely likes Sam/ Tommy, and is clearly uncomfortable with the regulations that require the disciplinary action. He's not a homophobe in the same vein as the bullying, possibly deadly CHAIN gang, but he does oppose gays in the military, and his attempt to explain his position is awkward, fumbling, and full of vague statements that fail to provide any actual reasons.

More to the point, the dean's position is strongly supported by Al, Sam's usually loyal sidekick. Why did writer Duncan make this decision? Clearly to present the appearance of neutrality. The show has only two regular characters, both thoroughly likable. And it turns out that Sam is in favor of gays in the military, while Al is opposed to it. But why is Al opposed to gays serving in the military? Tellingly, his arguments are as fumbled and imprecise as Admiral Spencer's.

I consider this a serious mistake on writer Duncan's part. Al has always been presented as a political and social liberal, so his opposition to gays in the military seems acharacteristic. Could it have something to do with the fact that Al has served in the military? Al says yes -- but is still unable express his reasoning. That's a real missed opportunity to explore the reasoning of some high-ranking military personnel who oppose allowing homosexuals to serve. Al is obviously proud of his military background; despite the fact that his job clearly doesn't have a dress code (judging from Al's usually outrageous suits) he still occasionally chooses to wear his dress uniform. But writer Duncan chooses to ignore the implications of all of this. Instead, Duncan presents Al (who is often used for comic relief) as a buffoon whose mind is full of stereotypes and myths involving homosexuality. He foolishly starts to worry that, by leaping into Tommy's body metaphysically, Sam has picked up some of Tommy's traits and might be becoming gay himself. Sam angrily and rightfully ridicules these comments, but where does that leave us?

The way I see it -- and writer Duncan seems to agree with me -- is there are more or less two types of people who oppose allowing gays in the military. CHAIN represents the outright homophobes, who respond to homosexuals with anger, hatred, and violence. And then there are the people like Al and Admiral Spencer, the dean. Neither of them have any problem with gay people in any other context, but they fear that allowing gays and straights to serve together poses insurmountable practical difficulties. Now, you and I may or may not agree with their position, with their reasoning, but here's my point: They do have reasoning behind their position, and that reasoning, whether or not you think it's ultimately logical or valid, is certainly more sophisticated than Al's bumbling "well, you know, it's just, uh . . ."

If you're going to address the issue, then address it. Otherwise, you do a disservice to both sides of the argument (and no, that doesn't mean that it's therefore okay because it somehow "cancels out"); people on one side of the argument don't get a voice at all, while people on the other side don't have a position to argue against. An unchallenged argument isn't stronger for the lack of counterbalance; with no opposing view to contrast itself, an unchallenged argument is forced to rely on broad statements ("opposing gays in the military is wrong!") that oversimplify views and ultimately fail to convince anyone of anything.