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Mr Brooks is a successful businessman and devoted husband and father. But unbeknownst to anyone else, he's also a prolific serial killer and one who is so good that he's never been caught. He's tried desperately to control his urges and the sardonic alter-ego he calls Marshall. But when he gives into temptation he's caught on film by a creepy peeping Tom. The next thing he knows, he's tangled up in the twisted agenda of the opportunistic bystander and they are both being hunted by tenacious detective Tracy Atwood. Can Mr Brooks keep his secret under wraps, or will he be exposed to his wife and daughter?
This is Bruce A Evans' second feature as director in fifteen years (after the forgettable Christian Slater vehicle "Kuffs") and his inexperience shows. It should be a serial killer movie with a strangely sympathetic anti-hero. But Evans messes up by failing to establish Brooks sufficiently as the dull-as-dishwater family man before he goes off on his killing spree. You only see him in montage, attending a "Man of the Year" ceremony, before staking out his victims. It isn't enough and putting Costner in a bowtie and glasses is a poor substitute for character development. The scenes are too short, making the film feel choppy and the characters difficult to get to know and harder to empathise with. We don't see enough of Earl's family to understand his great love for them, which is pivotal to the story and the dichotomy of his personality. Their problems are dealt with in soap opera fashion so they feel trite and predictable and you know they will turn out to be the central character's Achilles heel.
The murders themselves are clinically efficient but using the old horror
equation of sudden + loud = scary, makes them feel cheap. The blurred, slow-motion instant replays of them, show how Mr Brooks remembers them for his own gratification, but makes it feel like the director doesn't trust his star enough to convey the emotions of the character. His use of blue tints and shadows for the killer's bad thoughts is intermittent, so doesn't feel like part of an overall style. The subplot involving the escape of a serial killer known as "The Hangman" plays out like a cheap, lurid action movie, complete with strobe-lit fire-fight and near-misses. It's a messy movie that requires sharper editing, more focus on building characters we care about and a coherent story.
The screenplay by Evans and co-writer Raynold Gideon lacks originality and emotional depth. I guess it's not that surprising when you know they wrote "Cutthroat Island". They are too eager to get to the gory deaths to bother with decent character development for any of the main players. Not enough is made of Mr Brooks' dual life or how he hides his murders from his family. The everyday family man doesn't even have a personality and it's only when he's on a killing spree he becomes interesting and that's because he has an alter-ego to chat to. As both businessman and serial killer he feels too meticulous and dispassionate. Marshall, the physical embodiment of his psychosis is far better drawn; a shadowy, menacing, taunting figure that takes delight in all of Earl's wrongdoings. Wannabe killer Mr Smith is a textbook psychopath that thinks he's better than everyone else and blames others for all of his failures. But this makes him an all-too-predictable loose cannon whose weaknesses will be exploited by the lead. Detective Tracy Atwood is defined solely by her job. Attempts to make her more rounded by adding a subplot about her rocky divorce fail because we don't know enough about her as a person. The peripheral characters are badly underwritten, working only as lazy plot devices or traditional roles such as the doting wife and loyal cop's partner.
The narrative is too predictable. The writers have added a few plot strands that should make it more interesting if they were properly thought out. But the various sub-narratives, like the reason Earl's daughter has dropped out of university and threats on Detective Atwood's life from an escaped murderer feel like padding to an otherwise slim story. The subplots don't mesh well with the main narrative and a couple of last minute twists do little but drag the running time out, so the movie is a flabby hundred-and-twenty minutes long. The dialogue lacks self-awareness and the ability to avoid cliché, so feels contrived.
Kevin Costner is desperately trying to reinvent himself after a lifetime of playing bland everymen. But he's left it too late as his performance here attests. You can believe in him as the warm, conservative side of Mr Brooks, who runs a box factory and loves his family. But as the serial killer he's playing the mood too much and his turn comes off as superficial. He may be able to tilt his head at the right angle to make himself look sinister and laugh nastily. But he doesn't feel truly scary because his daily persona is too staid and dull by comparison.
As Marshall, William Hurt is by far the best thing in the movie. He's now in a phase of his career where he's clearly playing the characters he wants to and does so with gusto. In his hands, Marshall is a nasty, insidious creation who is by turns, sarcastic, belligerent and sardonic. But he's not entirely evil because he is the embodiment of Mr Brooks' conscience, so he almost redeems himself.
Neither Marg Helgenberger as Emma Brooks nor Danielle Panabaker as Jane gets a real chance to shine because of inadequate writing. Helgenberger is a standard doting wife and mother, with the odd flash of sexiness and Panabaker is a picture perfect daddy's girl whose possible character shift isn't defined well enough to convince. Dane Cook makes a surprisingly creepy wannabe killer as Mr Smith. He's a shifty, erratic sicko, who is far scarier than Costner's methodical murderer. He looks like a loon from the start and he sustains the jittery but smug persona throughout. He throws in some childish petulance at times. As Detective Tracy Atwood, Demi Moore looks the part of the cold, hard career-woman. But she's been nipped and tucked beyond expression so is hard to believe. She's determined, hardened by experience but unlikeable in the extreme, so is a poor heroine because you won't care for her.
Ramin Djawadi's original music feels like a throwback to an 80s' horror movie because of his use of synthesizers. The film opens with electronic timpani, metallic percussion and echoing strings. There are various other electronic arrangements throughout including chiming melotron and drum machine passages that attempt to raise the levels of excitement and rising electronic strings and piano for an interrogation. These are juxtaposed with more traditional orchestral arrangements that are generally employed when Brooks is with his family. So there are twinkly pianos and warm strings aplenty to show his love for his wife and daughter. But it's too little, too late and the music simply isn't strong enough to set the nerves on edge or to add a much needed emotional layer to the movie.
"Mr Brooks" is a bland film that is neither original nor insightful enough to stand up to other serial killer movies. It lacks the emotional depth to work as a character study of a man fighting his own personal demons, too generic to work as a detective flick and too tame to work as a horror movie. The final twists are too late and not integrated well enough into the script to have resonance. The direction is pedestrian, the writing anaemic and the casting misjudged. The only thing scary about this film is that ageing star Kevin Costner is still getting his backside out in public.
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I'm a huge William Hurt fan; he's good in anything! As for this film, most people have told me to see it for Costner, though I think your right...sounds as if the transitiion came too late after years of playing bland leading men. His best film will always be DANCES WITH WOLVES, I say...Great review...Chris x
hlmccarron 24.10.2007 22:12
well written review although I disagree with your opinion. I went to see this film and thought it was one of the best films I've seen in a while x
lobourse 24.10.2007 20:54
I've not been able to warm to Costner ever since the travesty that was JFK