I have three gigantic problems with this film: Johnny Depp's hair, Johnny Depp's name and Johnny Depp's surprise. Unfortunately, I can't reveal the surprise, because it would ruin the film for anybody unfortunate enough to purchase a ticket, and the lawyers at Sony Pictures have threatened to send the company's entire surplus of Beta VCRs to my house if I even so much as hint at what happens at the end of this film.
Johnny plays a writer named Mort Rainey. As if things weren't bad enough for Mort with his pending divorce from Amy (Maria Bello), some Mississippi psychotic, John Shooter (John Turturro), shows up at his doorstep in upstate New York claiming that Mort has plagiarized one of his stories. Shooter insists that if Mort doesn't make things right, ugliness will ensue.
What's truly ugly is the way this film cheats the audience. Let's just say that things are not what they seem. I abhor any film in which what the viewer sees is not what's actually happening. If that's the source of the so-called "surprise," what's the point of watching?
I have one word for Johnny Depp: gel. In Hollywood, the crazy hair marks the writer like the egotistical smirk marks the genius psychopath. It's a stereotype that's been stretched farther than Roger Ebert's upturned thumb. And I simply could not get over hearing Johnny Depp called "Mort." Casting Depp as a "Mort" is like casting The Rock as a "Dweezil." The mental gymnastics required to wrap one's mind around that just aren't possible.
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