You can just picture it. Someone comes up with this great idea to make a fun, hip flick about cops in Hollywood full of cameos by stars that ends with a chase down Hollywood Boulevard. And one day theyll make that film. In the meantime we have HOLLYWOOD HOMICIDE, a film so bad that the chamber of commerce should sue.
There are more random ideas here than there is a capacity to deal with them and theyre tossed on screen with an abandon that smacks of desperation. Hence we have a cop who wants to be a real estate mogul (Harrison Ford), a cop who wants to be an actor (Josh Hartnett), a sexy psychic (Lena Olin), a sexy Hollywood madame (Lolita Davidovich), some dirty cops, the music business, a movie mogul on the skids and both a slow and a high speed chases through Beverly Hills and the canals of Venice Beach. Forget plot, forget narrative arc, heck, forget coherence and character consistency. This is the blender approach to scriptwriting and why anyone thought that it wouldnt lead to guacamole, I cant imagine.
Now, it is a fact that if you can get some chemistry going with your stars and some sharp dialogue, much can be forgiven. Not even Raymond Chandler understood exactly what was going on with THE BIG SLEEP, but Bogie and Bacall were the stars and their scintillating double-entendres made everything else moot. Alas, here we have Ford and Hartnett. Scintillating does not enter into it. These two look as though theyve just been introduced and have taken an instant and visceral dislike to each others aftershave. Further, Ford looks like a sleepwalker having a particularly boring dream. Was it necessary to sedate him to get him through this part? One has questions. Hartnett is hardly less inert. Even while being seduced in a hot tub, he never manages to look particularly engaged in whats going on. As for the ladies of the piece, Olin is there so that there can be a few perfunctory sex scenes. Davidovitch is there to add another pointless subplot, and the ladies of the yoga class that Hartnetts character teaches in his spare time are there so that Fords character can attempt to crack wise while ogling the spandex with all the enthusiasm of a cotton ball. A sleepy cotton ball.
As for the dialogue, its hard to credit Ron Shelton, he of the glorious BULL DURHAM with the stale cop-and-donut joke that perfectly encapsulates what passes for wit in this flick. Rather than protecting and serving, or even paying much attention to the gangland-style murder case at hand, our guys seize the opportunity to pitch real estate and pass out head shots while interviewing witnesses and potential suspects. They even pause for what they must think will be whoops of laughter from the audience in response to punch lines that never materialize. How presumptuous.
By the time we get to the chase scene in Hollywood, the one that goes on forever and a day without really accomplishing much beyond rehashing every other chase scene youve scene done better elsewhere, theres nothing to do but sit through it, wait for the credits, and pray that there isnt a sequel.
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