Code Orange Alert #38323: John Q.
Tips. Not only am I useful in complementing shoddy cinema techniques, I'm also good at supplying handy information to you fellow Movieweb trustees. This week's guide to surviving heart puncture wounds in the form of weepy, teary-eyed celluloid? Here's one for all you cooler than thou hipster sh*t-f*cks: When visiting the Laemmle 5 Virgin Courtyard just to park your car while living it up at some bar I could never get into, always remember to dress according to the film you've bought tickets for, just so you can validate your parking and not pay the exuberant "this lot is only for geeks who have nothing better to do than watch Toxic Avenger Part Four on Saturday at Midnight" fee. Trust me; even if you buy the nine dollar ticket, those fine folks at the box office are going to turn you away. They know how to read people, natch.
Secondly, if you're invited to the New Line Screening Room, home of the fine folks who've produced this winner, remember to stop by The News Room, located in Robertson's patio-quad. They make a shining Sapphire Martini that burns like soft pink cheek cells. You're gonna need two of them when faced with a film like John Q.
I knew, from the moment Oprah and her seething legion of daytime followers bowed at the feet of Denzel and declared this his crowning jewel, that I was in trouble. Deep.
"But Orange, are you admitting to watching Oprah? You scumbag traitorous Teebz-in-training."
"No. I'm trying to make a point."
A message movie, not unlike I Am Sam, was about to eat it's way into my frustrated heart. Yes, shred the skin off this Studio workhorse and you've got the exact same movie as Sam, sticking a clavicle-clamp in your chest to expose the ribcage. It's a beast with claws, quick to scratch out your teardrops and kill off any stomach butterflies. John Q. is vindictive and manipulative like an abusive girlfriend who uses diverse emotions as her weapon of choice. Hollywood will never stop making these types of films. So, you can either be ignorant of its behavior and cry your eyes out (like the Sixteen Ton black man sprawled in front of me), sit with your arms crossed hating its obvious stupidity, or, be like me and give into it's overall entertainment value.
Before I dig the knife in too deep, I'll lay it out on the stolen coffee table to show my appreciation and weakness. I like this movie. It's engaging and swift, never stumbling in one single bored moment. Yet, it's laughable at best. Pure drivel that plays volleyball with your heartstrings. At once, I played too cool and unreceptive to this kind of scheming nature. Since Sam, Life as a House, and now John Q, I've learned to kick back and enjoy such plastic patio furniture on a loop. I've found this: My new favorite genre, useless in parody because it's become a parody within itself. Dig it.
Let's jump past all the HMO bitch-slapping. At its core, John Q. is a cautionary tale about impatient driving. Angels steer white BMWs and God's a Truck Driver. Take heed, all you beautiful girls with virtuous skin and the pixie doll haircut, it seems your sole purpose in life is too succumb to a head-on collision with an eighteen wheeler sent from the heavens above. Though it takes a screwdriver to some of its blatant points, the film stays subtle in urging you too wear Red Cross donor tags, just like the hot little number who dies in an automobile accident the same day Mike Archibald's aorta swells to burst like a balloon. You see, that way, when some no-collar citizen with a faulty HMO plan hijacks an emergency room, and you take it in the face on the highway, you'll be able to save his kid that much quicker. Of course, this only applies to you Garden-tier Fairies with the expensive whitewash and sexy, come-hither look upon high-speed impact.
From the film's opening moments, disguised as a car crash, we know emotions are going to be grafted on, then stapled twice as thick. John Q. asks for a miracle. Gabriela Oltean's sacrifice behind the wheel seems a little too contrived and convenient. And damned if it doesn't come at the right moment.
The director gives away the entire film right off the bat, as if too say, "Don't snot the back of your hand too much, it'll all work itself outin the end" Only Sam Dawson would be oblivious to this conclusion. And heck, considering his weekly "retard" movie night, I bet he's got a good idea about John Q.'s intentions. The film has one of those "sh*t or get off the pot" type finales where the protagonist takes the situation into his own hands, and then meanders just long enough for a solution to present itself.
With no options left, John decides to shoot himself in the head. He figures Dr. Turner can take his heart and sew it into his son's chest. Like a moment out of a comedic spoof, this self-sacrifice takes forever. There's the salt-stained good-bye to his son, the last drink of water, the false intended action. Of course, he pulls the trigger and the safety's on. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't a trigger just lock up when the safety's on? Here, it actually clicks as though the gun were empty. As concerned a father as he is, John Q is basically stalling for time. Citizen Toxie plays off this certain type of machination in a hilarious scene where a five-second bomb takes ten minutes to blow up. That's all I could think about here, watching this. It's essentially the same scene. This whole sequence, as dumb as it is, is a ride. We know from the get-go that Denzel's not going to die. Why? Because this is an Industry movie unwilling to take chances. Denzel has enough time to commit the act of suicide in the name of his son, even with the heart transplant fax coming through the phone wire. But having a loved actor Pollock-render the bed sheets in red is unconstitutional; especially when the act is unnecessary.
Look at the low budget Indie The Final. Dennis Leary takes a lethal injection to save a woman. The woman passes on, unknown to him and his doctor, right before the needle pierces his skin. Dennis dies in vein, trying to save someone who is already dead. Imagine the impact that same story structure would have in a film like this. Denzel dies with a heart for his son on the way. Then you have the obvious question, which heart does the boy get? His Dad's or the Beautiful White Woman's? Maybe the boy helps see his dad's heart into another patient. F*ck, the movie wants to wring beads of sweat out of your eye ducts, why doesn't it go all the way?
This film would probably be unwatchable if not for its core performance. When you order a black man on the rocks, the upper-class quality of a Denzel Washington is what you come to expect. He's shaken, not stirred, and that's just the way he's served, laid out on a bartop full of dissipating ice rings and cheese doodles. We need him here to carry us through the absurdities that play forth. The weight of dependency is on his back and shoulders. If we didn't believe in his soul purpose, John Q. would crumble to the floor.
Washington's better here than he was in Training Day. Sure, that performance grabbed him an Oscar Nod, but I still say I saw him winking from underneath the evil, icy stare he shot forth. He doesn't do that with John Archibald. I believe in the man as a man. Unlike Training Day, I'm not watching Washington shoot hoops. I'm watching him actually become someone else. The rest of this film's notable cast seems hinged to a low-level movie of the week. Liotta is ridiculous, and it's hard not to smirk at Robert Duvall's Italian accent. They play each note as if studying a worn out songbook, collapsing the concrete beams of John Q.'s story structure on Washington's strong neck. It's a shame, but that's what makes the movie pliable rather than excruciating to sit through.
It's a good thing Denzel hijacks an almost empty emergency room full of cliches. It only makes his job that much easier. Inside the hospital we find characters that probably came flying out of scriptwriting software at a thumb click. There's not an original in the bunch. We've got the pregnant lady and her husband, the ER Doctor, the gunshot victim, the mom and baby, the obese security guard, and the tough white kid who likes to beat on his girlfriend. We're left to rely on each individual's persona to carry us through. Rick Sood (who played the middle son on that Married...With Children rip-off Unhappily Ever After) as the ER Doctor, is annoying to look at but wins at kicking in some good dramatic lines. Ethan Suplee continues his career as set dressing, and Sean Hatosy comes across as the most annoying, ludicrous excuse to hate a character in a long time. An abusive boyfriend, he's a one-note jackass thrown in the mix just to stir things up without conviction; boring and not a bit likeable. We benefit most from Eddie Griffin, who graces the scene with some rather funny outbursts, some of which come from off-screen just to liven the mood. At the end, when he raises the peace sign and tells John Q., "You're my hero." He looks like he walked across the lot from his upcoming lead in Undercover Brother. Hilarious stuff.
The moments of heart failure on the baseball diamond are sewn together in a symphonic orchestra not unlike an orgy. There are hard hitting notes on the soundtrack that connect the dots in an odd, rocking overture. A similar motif occurs after a sniper crawls into the hospital air ducts and takes a shot at John Q. John beats the fallen man and drags him outside to a thunderous theme and applause. Crowds have gathered, and the outside of the hospital looks like Ozzfest. Denzel has whipped up something not unlike a rock concert, and the score drives this point home. God, it's so awful its pure genius.
What we have here is a crosspollination of Mad City and The Negotiator. This one tosses a kid into the mix just to see our chests swell and our eyes leak. Really, it doesn't play fair, but when you can manipulate the manipulator, you'll find that you're okay. I saw a lot of people crying at the screening, which is a given. They don't know any better and "want" to feel the obvious emotions. Me, I just want to be entertained. And I have a PPO, so I've chosen to ignore John Q.'s bleeding heart message.
I say go. Cartoons are fun.
|
Top Stories
62 Comments
