One of the most self indulgent, sadistic films of the year comes to us just in time for Christmas, and it's gift to us is to make us wish we were all dead.
One of the most self indulgent, sadistic films of the year comes to us just in time for Christmas, and it's gift to us is to make us wish we were all dead. Seven pounds is about the noble act of suicide. It teaches us that if we are so depressed that we cannot go on, why not give parts of our bodies to people who need them? This way we can die knowing large chunks of our flesh will be torn free of our rotting cadavers and pushed into the chests and heads of the needy. You can almost imagine the bi-polar screenwriter biting his arms and clinging to his snot-covered security blanket as he penned this psychological master piece.
Seven Pounds sees Will Smith bandying about with a blind guy (Woody Harrelson), a dying heart patient (Rosario Dawson) and a lady (Elpidia Carrillo) who supposedly gets beaten by her boyfriend for most of the movie, though we don't get to see any of that action. Basically he sneaks around testing them to see if they are worthy of his organs. What kind of sick asshole wrote this script? If I want to watch something about death, body parts, and shameless emotional appeals, I'll stay home and watch Grey's Anatomy reruns.
Here we have a Will Smith movie with no aliens, no virus infected zombies, no special effects, and the grand prize at the end – he kills himself. What are you doing Smith? Are you trying to shake off the remaining fans that didn't spiral into the dark void after you made Hancock? Screw broadening your range. We don't want to see this teary shit. Besides, you have no more chance of getting an Oscar for this performance than Keanu Reeves did in the "Lake House."
Rosario Dawson plays the sexy love interest in the movie. If her hospital gowns, ragged looks, and heart patient scars don't steam up the screen and get your blood flowing, the sex scene will for sure. Seeing as at any moment her heart could stop from the slightest exertion, I would have expected director Gabriele Muccino to have some caution. You know, so it makes sense. You can't have her near dead from a short walk with her dog and a scene later sticking it to Will Smith like she's back in a Tarantino movie. I guess sense is not as valued as it once was. Why should it make sense when instead we can see boobs?
Will Smith fills a bath with ice and drops in a jelly fish to not only kill himself, but make it as absolutely painful as possible. We are treated to a full minute of spasmodic agony as his life leaks away from the jelly fish sting. Rosario gets his heart, Woody his eyes, and I felt myself feeling most sorry for the jellyfish. The one saving grace about all of this is that there is no chance of a sequel ever seeing the light of day. Of course, I'm sure some asshole somewhere is thinking of a movie focused on nothing but killer, transparent sea creatures invading America's bathtubs. Though admittedly, that potential idea would be less of a blight on reality than "Seven Pounds."
After spending the film's full two hours fighting it's attempts to reach into my skull and sqeeze tears from my eyeballs, I sat in an exhausted stupor. It's a tiresome film to watch, with a warped message that will be sure to confuse the general public. If I had to put this one down as a bad decision on Will's part it would be the 'cocaine mixed with nitroglycerin up the nose while smoking' kind.
Any day now I expect to see a headline reading "Will Smith's career killed in tragic suicide movie." And it would be his own Oscar-mongering that did it. Finally, a Christmas miracle I can get behind.
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