ever since 'Pulp Fiction' revitalised his sagging career, John Travolta seems to have carved out a mini niche for himself as a slick and unflappable bad-ass. We've had 'Get Shorty', its follow-up 'Be Cool', 'Broken Arrow' and this 'Swordfish'. And maybe I've omitted one or two.
Frankly, it's a one-dimensional pose I'm beginning to tire of. In this outing he plays a sort of legitimate master-villain or something. His brief is to destroy any potential threat to the dear old United States. And that appears to justify any amount of slaughter - of the very innocent American civilians he's presumably charged to protect. It would appear that mass murder of the public is only terrorism when foreign nationals do it. Which is why the movie begins with a 'hostage situation', in which he has strapped plastic explosives, ball-bearings, and proximity-detonators to any number of bank-clerks, all in the supposed name of obtaining funds for national defence. Sadly, it is a caricature of the sort of madness that now passes clandestine current, and legitimised our illegal seizure of Iraq.
One of these hostages unfortunately detonates, and the slow-mo sequence and sound effects are extremely imaginative in their presentation. Gruesome as it may be, it is the best part of the movie. A great deal of thought went into it.
After that, it's a downhill spiral into computer-crap and erotic stimulation. Halle Berry finally gets to expose herself, a condition which she would appear to have aspired since acting school - if she ever went to one. Like Sandra Bullock, she seems quietly obsessed by her own prettiness, as if that alone were an adequate substitute for ability. Frankly, I find her endless writhing, posturing, and sidelong glances a little wearisome. And how any male can be abashed by the sight of a small pair of knockers in this day and age is quite beyond me, though apparently not the director. Standing with legs akimbo in skimpy black briefs might be calculated to stimulate adolescent erections but says nothing to the production's credit. However, those who are prone to play with themselves whilst watching movies will presumably not object to her paralysingly self-conscious galvanics.
At one point, a computer hacker is required to tap into a certain program whilst simultaneously being given a blow-job and having a gun pressed to his head. I kid you not.
There's a great deal of crash-bang-wallop. Shoot-em-ups vie with car chases. It certainly tests your credulousness. And all the time there's the indomitable Mr Travolta with his self-assured smile, apparently gloating over his impending pay-cheque, real or imaginary.
The ending is predictably preposterous, but by then you probably won't care too much.
There's a lot to be said for the nice straightforward and believable movies of the 1950's. But go on; you've always wanted to see Halle Berry's tits. So, now's your chance. If only her acting skills were half as neat.
Frankly, it's a one-dimensional pose I'm beginning to tire of. In this outing he plays a sort of legitimate master-villain or something. His brief is to destroy any potential threat to the dear old United States. And that appears to justify any amount of slaughter - of the very innocent American civilians he's presumably charged to protect. It would appear that mass murder of the public is only terrorism when foreign nationals do it. Which is why the movie begins with a 'hostage situation', in which he has strapped plastic explosives, ball-bearings, and proximity-detonators to any number of bank-clerks, all in the supposed name of obtaining funds for national defence. Sadly, it is a caricature of the sort of madness that now passes clandestine current, and legitimised our illegal seizure of Iraq.
One of these hostages unfortunately detonates, and the slow-mo sequence and sound effects are extremely imaginative in their presentation. Gruesome as it may be, it is the best part of the movie. A great deal of thought went into it.
After that, it's a downhill spiral into computer-crap and erotic stimulation. Halle Berry finally gets to expose herself, a condition which she would appear to have aspired since acting school - if she ever went to one. Like Sandra Bullock, she seems quietly obsessed by her own prettiness, as if that alone were an adequate substitute for ability. Frankly, I find her endless writhing, posturing, and sidelong glances a little wearisome. And how any male can be abashed by the sight of a small pair of knockers in this day and age is quite beyond me, though apparently not the director. Standing with legs akimbo in skimpy black briefs might be calculated to stimulate adolescent erections but says nothing to the production's credit. However, those who are prone to play with themselves whilst watching movies will presumably not object to her paralysingly self-conscious galvanics.
At one point, a computer hacker is required to tap into a certain program whilst simultaneously being given a blow-job and having a gun pressed to his head. I kid you not.
There's a great deal of crash-bang-wallop. Shoot-em-ups vie with car chases. It certainly tests your credulousness. And all the time there's the indomitable Mr Travolta with his self-assured smile, apparently gloating over his impending pay-cheque, real or imaginary.
The ending is predictably preposterous, but by then you probably won't care too much.
There's a lot to be said for the nice straightforward and believable movies of the 1950's. But go on; you've always wanted to see Halle Berry's tits. So, now's your chance. If only her acting skills were half as neat.