reedus in hollywood blockbusters

*SPOILER ALERT, BOTH FILMS*

Blade II: (2002. dir: Guillermo del Toro) It's a vampire movie, a comic book movie, a superhero movie, and, in supreme del Toro fashion, its stylishness approaches a level of fascism. Every protracted fight scene is sleek and smooth like silk, and you, I guarantee it, could not care less. This is vampires v. super-vampires (in the parlance of the film, suckheads v reapers), and it's genuinely difficult to give a fuck. The only fight scenes that'll rouse your dander at all are the ones involving either Kris Kristofferson or Norman Reedus, who are the only two humans in the movie. Well, Kristofferson is a vampire at the beginning, but Blade (Wesley Snipes, who, incidentally, also seems not to care overmuch) injects him with a dose of antitoxin which seems to magically burn all the vamp right out of him, so he's human again.

This is the kind of mega-suspension of disbelief which is demanded of the audience again and again by this grossly excessive, super-Matrixy, super-shiny gorefest. The one that really killed me was the bomb which its designer built to be not a bomb at all, just a dummy, but, magically, it becomes a lethal bomb JUST BECAUSE BLADE SAYS SO. Argh! This movie is full of 'em. It's del Toro, and this is only his sophomore foray onto the Hollywood backlot, so he's just having fun with slick metallic sets and crazy-looking super-vamps whose faces peel open when they feed, making them look a little octopusish. The way the vamps disintegrate when you kill them, sort of turning into heaps of molten lava then cooling fast into ash, looks, admittedly, very impressive. The camera is in constant, effortless motion, and the world looks a lot like Hellboy's will a few years later, Ron Perlman included.

Reedus has a blast as Scud, the fast-talking Igor to Blade's Frankenstein, or, more appropriately, the Renfield to his Dracula. He's the whiz kid, half pothead and half Q, whipping up the ridiculous toys this superhero vampire-killer uses (a self-loading arm attachment firing silver discs, a rifle that shoots sunlight, a grenade that explodes UV.) (Buffy never needed all that detritus. I'm just saying). The only truly great fight scene is when Scud, alone in the surveillance van, is descended upon by a mob of super-vamps. His fear and clumsiness feel so true as to inspire us to root for him, and when he, with shaky good instincts but without backup, wins, it feels like the only meaningful victory in the whole movie. Never mind that, true to its comic book two-dimensionality, he turns up quisling before the end, his rebel fortitude a mere sham, sold himself out as "familiar" to the regular vamps for no better reason than that he thinks they'll win. I confess, I felt more betrayed than Blade did. (Blade claims to have known it all along. "Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer." Blade speaks mostly in cliches.) It is a betrayal of story, though, ultimately. It's the kind of twist a bad writer thinks delightful, but really it flattens out the character, makes a lie of the three dimensions which have gone before, pancakes him into mere vicious opportunism, and all for the sake of a single cheap thrill, one "special" effect.

It makes little sense, but most of the movie makes little sense. You have to relax into its Barry-White-level-of-dulcet del Toro stylings and go where they take you. That or turn the damn thing off.

Rating: two stars, because it's not really bad for what it is; it's just that what it is is stupid
Reedus Factor: three and a half stars

American Gangster: (2007. dir: Ridley Scott) This is the caliber of actor playing the smaller roles in this movie: John Hawkes, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Idris Elba, Carla Gugino, Kevin Corrigan. That understood, this is the extent of Reedus' involvement: Russell Crowe is a cop who's visiting the morgue to identify the body of his ex-partner. He introduces himself to Reedus, who introduces himself back. Reedus says, "That him?" and Crowe says, "Yeah," then remarks at how full the place is. Reedus then gives us a crucial piece of exposition: that since this new, ultra-pure heroin called Blue Magic has hit the streets, the morgue is a major place of congregation for junkies, and he doesn't get home until after midnight these days.

That's it. But this is why I love taking on an actor's whole resume, because I wind up watching things I wouldn't have seen otherwise, not in a hundred years. And it's pretty good. It's got smooth editing, a good flow to the story, although it glides right past some of the sticking points: like, how exactly did this yankee drug-lord manage to bribe the U.S. army into smuggling his heroin out of Nam for an entire decade? and how did he assassinate a rival in broad daylight on a crowded street then just walk away, without negative repercussion? therein lie stories, but not the ones Scott wants to tell us. That's alright. Let's have it understood, though, that he's sanding some of the rough edges off the monumentally dirty and time-consuming work of running a criminal empire.

But how about that Denzel, huh? The man has gravitas to spare. He never makes half a gesture; it's bold or nothing at all. That guy is a Movie Star, capital M, capital S, no question.

It's got a great end-piece: Denzel's master-criminal is released from jail after fifteen years. We see him walk out, then watch him in long shot as he stands, stock-still and awkward in his outdated suit, the movement of the city street continuing past and around him, the whirling business of life in a decade of which he knows nothing.

Rating: three stars
Reedus Factor: zero stars