Ever see a movie for the first time yet still have to ask yourself, "Wait, have I seen this before?" That's pretty much what we're dealing with here. Even if you haven't seen this movie yet, you have.
With "Don't Say a Word," it's like whoever made it was so enthralled by the high-concept, give-it-to-me-in-ten-words-or-less premise, they figured they didn't have to try real hard with anything else. Sure, it's competent. But with its intriguing premise, it should have advanced way past that.
Oh well. It doesn't. Michael Douglas -- who in this film is wearing more make-up than the "women" I see on Santa Monica Blvd. at midnight -- puts in the kind of performance that, if this were an office job, wouldn't get him fired but wouldn't get him promoted. It's more than a drive-by paycheck pick-up, but Douglas has been around long enough to size up a script and know when he should bother trying and when he shouldn't. He goes with choice B here. And it doesn't really matter.
(As a side note, when is the last time Michael Douglas had an on-screen wife within 20 years of his own age? I mean, come on. Do you really think that in real life the man could...oh, wait, never mind.)
As for everything else, Brittany Murphy scores some points for playing a schizophrenic disaster of a girl who you'd still like to nail. Oliver Platt, who is getting fatter faster than Aretha Franklin, shows up for some day player-level acting work. Famke Jannsen looks sexy in a cast, but isn't given much to do. And as for the cop, played by Jennifer Esposito, she is so irrelevant to the plot that she's practically in a different movie altogether.
The plot? If you can't figure out how this movie ends, you're trying even less than whoever wrote it.
Having said all that, it will still kill two free hours just fine. Little ventured, nothing gained.
With "Don't Say a Word," it's like whoever made it was so enthralled by the high-concept, give-it-to-me-in-ten-words-or-less premise, they figured they didn't have to try real hard with anything else. Sure, it's competent. But with its intriguing premise, it should have advanced way past that.
Oh well. It doesn't. Michael Douglas -- who in this film is wearing more make-up than the "women" I see on Santa Monica Blvd. at midnight -- puts in the kind of performance that, if this were an office job, wouldn't get him fired but wouldn't get him promoted. It's more than a drive-by paycheck pick-up, but Douglas has been around long enough to size up a script and know when he should bother trying and when he shouldn't. He goes with choice B here. And it doesn't really matter.
(As a side note, when is the last time Michael Douglas had an on-screen wife within 20 years of his own age? I mean, come on. Do you really think that in real life the man could...oh, wait, never mind.)
As for everything else, Brittany Murphy scores some points for playing a schizophrenic disaster of a girl who you'd still like to nail. Oliver Platt, who is getting fatter faster than Aretha Franklin, shows up for some day player-level acting work. Famke Jannsen looks sexy in a cast, but isn't given much to do. And as for the cop, played by Jennifer Esposito, she is so irrelevant to the plot that she's practically in a different movie altogether.
The plot? If you can't figure out how this movie ends, you're trying even less than whoever wrote it.
Having said all that, it will still kill two free hours just fine. Little ventured, nothing gained.