Predictable ending to 'Last Man Standing'

By Laksmi Pamoentjak-Djohan

JAKARTA (JP): Two things are self-explanatory in Bruce Willis' latest action flick. One is the very first line in the title sequence: A Lone Wolf Film. It immediately puts us on familiar territory, knowing that what we are about to watch is another one-man show in the typical Willis mold.

The other is the movie title, Last Man Standing. In addition to knowing who it will be, it pretty much gives away the whole story. That much should satisfy most of Willis' diehard fans, and is perhaps what really matters in the end. After all, in an era where films are no longer defined by genre but by the actors starring in them, by now, everyone ought to know what a Bruce Willis picture should be.

There are different theories regarding the inspiration behind this movie, the most popular being that it is the second re-make of Akira Kurosawa's classic 1961 samurai warrior movie Yojimbo. The first remake, relocated to the Old West by Italy's Sergio Leone in 1964, came in the form of A Fistful of Dollars, a movie which catapulted Clint Eastwood to international stardom.

According to another theory, it is a first-time film adaptation of the real source material for both of the above- mentioned movies, Dashiell Hammett's bloody gangster novel, The Red Harvest. Whichever theory is more accurate, in an era of drained imagination, remakes seem to have become the favorite sanctuary of the uninspired. Check out some of 1990's recent titles: The Fugitive, Mission Impossible, Diabolique, The Vanishing, The Island of Dr. Moreau.

The movie begins with lone-wolf Willis driving down a lonely desert path en route to Mexico during the prohibition era. On the run for some unexplained federal offense, he enters the creepy, ramshackle, dust-strewn Texas border town of Jericho, presumably seeking no more than a place to rest. To match his mysterious background, the atmosphere is moody, ambiguous, mystical, almost unreal, courtesy of cinematographer Lloyd Ahern, who shot the entire film in faded reds and yellows, tinted light browns, and shadows, as if to tell us that none of the scenes before us is intended to portray any sort of reality.

Still dazed by all the stunning atmospherics, I was suddenly caught in a time warp. While all the conventional basics of the Western are immaculately present -- wooden planks, seedy bars, swinging saloon doors, blowing tumbleweeds -- the sight of Willis driving a Model-T Ford and dressed in a crisp dark suit and fedora made my forehead twitch a little. The discrepancy becomes more apparent when Willis' windshield gets smashed all of a sudden by a bunch of tommy gun-toting thugs, a punishment for making eyes at their boss' girl, Felina (Karina Lombard). They are all dressed in full gangster regalia, in spite of the scorching heat of West Texas.

This hint of confused eclecticism, thankfully, is not self- sustainable. The story rolls on, telling us that, in an attempt to even the score, Willis learns that Jericho is split between two bootlegging factions battling for control of the Mexican smuggling trade. One is headed by Doyle (David Patrick Kelly), a hot-headed Irishman with sentimental tendencies, and the other by Fredo Strozzi (Ned Eisenberg), a Chicago-connected Italian mobster. Since "All the good guys have left town", the rest of Jericho only consists of the ineffectual and corrupt Sheriff Ed Galt (Bruce Dern), the dim-witted bartender Joe Monday (William Sanderson), and the ghostly undertaker Smiley. A very convenient setting from which to derive quite a bit of money.

After he fills a few bodies with lead and earns instant recognition as a super-competent gunslinger, Willis hires himself out to both gangs and plays them against each other. Cheekily calling himself John Smith, his plan is to work for and weaken both sides and to eventually set up a war in which he will be the only survivor. All the while, he tries to convince us that money is his only motive and that "He has no conscience". But along the way, his interest in Felina and his friendship with the bartender suggest that he too is ... mortal.

However, the much-reported violence in this movie seems a tad exaggerated. Although decidedly unsightly -- with several scenes of brutal slayings and Smith massacring a dozen or so men before any of them can hit him -- there have been grosser cinematic efforts in recent history. After Rodriguez and Tarantino's latest effort, From Dusk Till Dawn, I guess anything else is bearable.

Director and screenwriter Walter Hill, whose bloodstained CV includes 48 hours and Extreme Prejudice, is evidently at home with the concept of maladjusted, totally Godless men who don't know any other pleasure in life other than to blast each other to death. His choice of Willis as the lead actor is an inspired one, as the role fits him like a second skin. Laconic and ultra-cool, Willis has this inexplicable talent for appearing believable, even if the entire movie isn't.

Another noted performance is that by Christopher Walken. A veteran at portraying gravely-voiced psychos, he is truly in his element playing Doyle's sadistic henchman, Hickey. The rest of the cast is a generally underdeveloped lot, including Karina Lombard, whose usefulness in the movie doesn't extend much beyond her usual alluring sideshow stereotypes (in The Firm and The Legends of the Fall).

However one chooses to look at the movie -- as a superficial tale of mindless violence, a remake of better-realized movies, or a pure Willis action vehicle -- its faults primarily lie in the attempt to prioritize style over substance. While there is a lot of grace and artistry in the cinematography, Hill's heavy dependence on atmosphere prevents him from portraying worthier issues.

For instance, the movie is overwhelmingly and unabashedly male. The only two women in the film are both relegated to being mere "properties" of men: Felina, Doyle's unhappy mistress, and Lucy (Alexandra Powers), a fluff-brained prostitute chained to Strozzi. Given some of the lines Lucy says, no wonder she gets called "paper thin" and "whore" and gets one of her ears sliced off.

Willis' raspy voice-over narration is a total redundancy, because it negates the whole mystery and anonymity of his character. The real trouble lies not in the corniness of his streetwise philosophies, but in the very fact that they are stated, which ceases to make John Smith a puzzle to us. Voice- overs might have worked for Winona Ryder in How to Make an American Quilt and House of The Spirits. She is kind of cute, and her sweet, innocent voice lent effective charm to both films. But in John Smith's case, it robs him of his mythical aura and ironic edge, and the whole (if not the only) appeal of the story is lost.

Finally, following one of the best cultivated traditions of Tinseltown, we heave a sigh of relief once again that the hero (or antihero) gets to live, gets the money, and probably also gets the girl. We don't want him to die, even if we know he is a greedy and amoral mass murderer, because Hollywood has perfected the art of getting people like us to sympathize with any type of characters, even the worst imaginable. As long as we've paid to watch certain box-office actors portraying them, naturally.