Men in Black III

Trust me, you'll thank me later

Grade: C

Director: Barry Sonnenfeld

Starring: Will Smith, Josh Brolin, Tommy Lee Jones, Jemaine Clement and Emma Thompson

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 1 hr. 45 min.

The ubiquitous branding of Will Smith™ over the past several years—from his son becoming a karate kid to his daughter whipping her hair back and forth—camouflages the fact that the erstwhile Fresh Prince hasn’t starred in a movie since Seven Pounds four years ago, marking the first time he hasn’t released films in consecutive years since 1995.

Men in Black III comes ten years since the last sequel, and the time away hasn’t been kind to the subfusc-clad odd couple tasked with protecting Earth from the scum of the universe. For some reason, Agent J (Smith) remains preoccupied with trying to figure out why Agent K (Tommy Lee Jones) is so surly and K is still reticent about telling J intimate state secrets, problems you’d think the duo would have resolved over their 14-year partnership.

Agent J travels back to 1969 to save his taciturn partner from being killed by Boris (Jemaine Clement), a snarling fugitive who escapes from a moon-based prison and also looking to time jump in order to exact revenge on K for shooting his arm off 40 years ago.

At first, the whole plot feels like an artifice built around the gimmick that Josh Brolin, playing K circa 1969, can do a killer Jones impersonation. In truth, the 65-going-on-85-year-old Jones (and his bad makeup job arises suspicions that K is actually an alien) isn’t able—or willing, judging by his palpable disinterest—to carry the entire movie, so Brolin enters to share the comedic load with Smith and the proverbial cast of cosmic creatures. Still, I’ll take three minutes of Jones’ deadpanned wit over Brolin’s mimicry, which eventually devolves into just calling his partner “Slick” about two dozen times.

But the principal problem with any Men in Black sequel, particularly one as lifeless as this, is the lost sense of discovery that made the first film so hip. Now, all those carnivorous aliens disguised as humans, memory swiping, shiny shooting gadgets and Danny Elfman’s insistent score seem more like pastiche stripped of its once zippy vibe. And time travel back to the 1960s? You may as well just watch Austin Powers again.

The ripple effect of alternate timelines, illuminated via a clairvoyant creature named Griffin (Michael Stuhlbarg), quickly becomes the narrative’s focus and albatross. It’s a concept rife with potential but entirely belonging in another film. Moreover, its execution litters the story with gaping plot holes and throwaway characters. Emma Thompson plays the new MIB boss who shares a decades-old relationship with K that, for some reason, the previous two films never hinted at. Bill Hader provides a too-brief depiction of the “real” Andy Warhol, and Pussycat Doll Nicole Scherzinger helps baddie beau Boris bust out of Lunar Max only to vanish as quickly as she arrived.

Men in Black III isn’t good, but it also isn’t necessarily awful. Its biggest fault is that it’s unoriginal and dreadful dull. A ticket to see it should come coupled with a Neuralyzer so filmgoers can zap their brains when the closing credits start rolling and forget everything they just saw.

Neil Morris

Hancock

Hancock saves the world from rising gas prices

Grade: B –

Director: Peter Berg

Starring: Will Smith, Charlize Theron, and Jason Bateman

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 1 hour, 32 minutes

There is more than one reason why the July 4^th holiday is the apt time to drop Hancock into theaters. The first concert I ever attended without my parents (because, take from me, parents just don’t understand) was when DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince came to the Camp Lejeune Fieldhouse in Jacksonville, N.C. After nearly going bankrupt in the early 1990s, Will Smith was rescued from the obscurity that besets many rap stars – the opening act at my concert was MC Rob Base – by a starring role in the TV series The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Today, Smith is a world-famous, Oscar-nominated, Scientology-spouting, box-office behemoth, and after a series of mid-summer successes beginning, appropriately enough, with Independence Day, July 4^th has perennially morphed into “Big Willie Weekend.”

Smith’s summer movie tentpole this year is a boozy, reluctant super anti-hero named Hancock, short for the founding father moniker John Hancock. With immense strength, the ability to fly, and invulnerability, Hancock is the world’s lone superpower. But, decades of unchecked dominance and perceived ingratitude has fostered a surly indifference that Hancock tries to douse with bourbon and rank recalcitrance. The (bald?) eagle – his unofficial symbol – snitched into the front of his ski hat has become worn and tattered, and when Hancock tries apprehend a band of gun-toting evildoers, he causes $9 million of carnage in the process. Shock and awe, indeed.

It is an interesting American allegory, not only in regards to the current state of country’s geo-political standing but also the double-edged consequences of heroism and supremacy. However, apparently all Hancock needs is an extreme makeover and severe attitude adjustment. Enter a struggling PR consultant, Ray (Jason Bateman), who, together with his wife Mary (Charlize Theron), befriends Hancock after he saves Ray from a train wreck. Ray tackles Hancock’s arrested development by convincing him to surrender his demons and surrender to authorities, voluntarily serving time for some vaguely referenced outstanding warrant until the world realizes they need him and comes calling.

Hancock is a project that has languished in Hollywood development hell for over a decade. The net effect of too many cooks in the writers’ kitchen is a schizophrenic script that gradually jettisons the symbolism in its promising premise for a convoluted, shabby final act that at times more closely resembles a bad Highlander sequel (and, honestly, is there any other kind?). The focus shifts sharply from a light-hearted, yet biting satire to a maddening exploration into Hancock’s origins, his shadowy past relationship with Mary, and the introduction of a fleeting, flaccid ex-con/not-so-super-villain (Eddie Marsan). Simply put, the less Hancock begins to resemble us (i.e., flawed and world-weary), the less interested we become in him, even as, ironically, his immortality is compromised. We want Superman manning the wall, but we remain far more enamored with flawed demigods like Batman and Spiderman.

With his last two films, The Kingdom and the stupendous Friday Night Lights, director Peter Berg has carved out a distinctive directorial style. The fault with Hancock lies not with Berg – although the F/X effects are shockingly shoddy – or Smith, or even John Powell’s bombastic score, sampled as it is from the John Williams song book. If only the screenwriters had been as interested in saving this screenplay as they were segueing their protag into a world savior, Hancock might have registered as an effectively offbeat super-hero offering in the same vein as Superman II or M. Night Shyamalan’s Unbreakable. Instead, Hancock eventually apes the very genre conventions it aims to parody. In other words, it becomes a standard-issue Will Smith 4^th of July vehicle - try to enjoy the ride.

Neil Morris