‘Surrogates’  - 3 out of 5 stars

 

Zero expectations. That’s what I had entering “Surrogates,” which ostensibly (no thanks to its trailer) appeared to be a hackneyed science-fiction flick trying to prop up a washed-up Bruce Willis and Ving Rhames.

Happy to report, my hunch — and that misleading trailer — were wide of the mark.

As sci-fi thrillers go, this one may not reach the level of “District 9” or, say, “Alien.” But where “Surrogates” lacks depth (it clocks in at a mere 88 minutes), it makes amends in pace and style, ringing more true than “The Matrix” in the bargain.

Based on a graphic novel, our near-future story follows the path of the titular lifelike androids that have all but taken over the world. Real people, you see, have been marginalized, predominantly staying indoors, while their perfected doppelgangers go about performing everyday functions.

These Stepford Wife-esque creatures are virtually programmed to flawlessly drive cars, go to work, enjoy cocktails at happy hour. No wonder crime in the U.S. is down 99 percent.

Among the double visions are Bruce Willis (whose surrogate sports the most amusing coif since Javier Bardem in “No Country for Old Men”) and Radha Mitchell, FBI agents who suddenly find themselves pursuing a killer of the surrogates. Turns out, there’s a rogue band of folks who prefer to be human all the time.

At the controls, or so he believes, lurks the surrogates’ creator (James Cromwell) who is two-faced in more ways than one. Ving Rhames, piling the ham high as a dreadlocked prophet, keeps resurfacing to remind us life’s pleasures can’t be appreciated through stand-ins.

Those ingredients had all the makings of a potential masterpiece, only to be eroded with inconceivable notions.

Characters, both human and artificial, will make decisions that boggle the mind. Particulars about the killings and a valuable weapon won’t be confused with those in exemplary scripts; everybody herein thrives on doing things the hard way and — conveniently for the suspense factor — at the last minute.

Essentials about the surrogates, meanwhile, are spot-on to the point of eerie. (e.g. expressionless creatures take standing breaks at any give time, whether on streets, shopping malls or public garages, to recharge in “quick volt” booths.) The stars’ pristine make-up and features are something to behold; more often than not, you will be transfixed.

From an action standpoint, the narrative gets molded into something stirring and riveting by capable filmmaker Jonathan Mostow, frequently only mentioned as director of “Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines,” as if he never helmed “U-571” and the discounted “Breakdown” (carried by a resourceful Kurt Russell). Mostow keeps the pot boiling — a helicopter crash takes top prize — even with the protracted chase scene.

The climax traverses shaky ground, as does the trite finale, which somewhat resembles M. Night Shyamalan’s overlooked “The Happening.” That’s OK in the scheme of things because “Surrogates” remains a worthwhile, if maddening, revelation, one approaching brilliance.

 

‘I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell’  - 1 ½ out of 5 stars

 

The title, which is wittier than anything else about the movie, says it all. As co-written by Tucker Max, whose blog and best-selling novel inspired the picture, “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell” follows the cheeky and barbaric path of a self-centered law student with a never-ending supply of money despite having no discernible job. As is often the case with this genre, money is no object.

The testosterone-driven protagonist (Matt Czuchry) proves about as uncouth as can be, blowing tons of cash as often as he insults members of the fairer sex. It’s purportedly a biopic of sorts, serving up digestible guilty laughs and spoonfuls of vulgar absurdities that appear to surpass those of “The Hangover” and “American Pie,” among other crude comedies.

Will casual filmgoers who enter “Beer in Hell” find it palatable and plausible just by holding onto their suspension of disbelief? Perhaps, though it stretches boundaries like nobody’s business. We’re to believe the spotlighted ladies’ man — or misogynist, take your pick — goes about flirting with, blatantly insulting and sleeping with girls 24/7.

True to form, upon entering a nightclub with a multitude of attractive ladies, he proclaims, “This is what I call a target-rich environment.”

We’re also poised to believe his closest pals (including miscast Jesse Bradford) will go along with almost everything he suggests, even when they disagree or have a bad feeling about, say, the fateful bachelor party.

Filmmaker Bob Gosse, who boasts more acting and producing credits than directorial ones, seems to be slumming here, pandering to the lowest denominator. Not that his presentation — just like his leading man — doesn’t have flair. Gosse spruces up the tedious narrative with quick cutaways and flashbacks, as if realizing the premise alone won’t suffice.

Czuchry, quite the TV star until now, can be oddly charming but is no physical entity; his player is so abusive that you wonder why no one punched his lights out or slapped him senseless. The storyline allows him to say and do anything he wants anytime, anywhere — culminating in an unspeakable mess in a fancy hotel’s lobby.

Inanities aside, “Beer in Hell” suffers because it breaks the unwritten rule of such farce: Its dialogue simply isn’t that funny.

Bradford’s supporting player, for instance, tries so hard to act like a bitter intellectual that we notice him acting every step of the way. His phony-baloney persona, along with a bow-tied overnight romance with a stripper he claims to detest, drags the movie into purgatory, which in this case feels no better than Hell.

 

jluksic@syvjournal.com