Here's a rule to live by: Bad Foley artist, bad film.
When you're watching the hunt for a psycho sex killer, you shouldn't be constantly distracted by the sound of footsteps. Obviously artificial footsteps. A lot of them: down marble courthouse hallways and up staircases. Or on a rainy sidewalk, where we hear the staccato tap of pumps with 3-inch heels, while the character was actually wearing Doc Martens.
We movie buffs know about the Foley artist, who adds the realistic snaps and pops and squeaks and thereby enhances the soundtrack of "real life," but we shouldn't have to think about him DURING the film. Unfortunately, "Criminal Law" breaks this essential rule. So I have no one to blame but myself for watching it from beginning to end. I wanted to like it...but I couldn't.
Gary Oldman plays a defense lawyer who helps a guilty man go free. When he discovers what he's done, Oldman spends the rest of the movie trying to get the killer. (The opening title is a quote about monster hunters becoming the monsters they hunt, an interesting idea that isn't really explored the way it could have been.)
The idea that a savvy former prosecutor—now defending the criminals he used to send to jail—is surprised to find that his client (Kevin Bacon) is guilty is just one of the silly conceits of this silly movie. Another is a lawyer who's willing to chuck his whole career to make sure justice is done, especially when it's not at all necessary. Can't the police catch this guy? He's not exactly keeping a low profile.
In the course of all this, we are treated to scenes of Gary Oldman in a wife-beater, whipping up a gourmet dinner for one in an immaculate architectural house; Gary Oldman in those painfully tiny '80s gym shorts, playing handball, or possibly squash; Gary Oldman naked, having truly embarrassing-to-watch sex with "Ellen" (a dreadful performance) interspersed with scenes of handball (or possibly squash); and generally a lot of Gary Oldman in a variety of GQ poses.
I'm not sure who to blame for the surfeit of uncomfortable and unconvincing raw emotion in this movie. Is it the writer's fault? The director's? Both Oldman and Bacon are usually wonderful actors. But I can't remember a movie with this much male-to-male crying.
"Criminal Law" takes itself far too seriously, and we can't take it seriously enough. I was sure Oldman and Bacon were co-producers; they weren't—but it was that kind of movie.
When you're watching the hunt for a psycho sex killer, you shouldn't be constantly distracted by the sound of footsteps. Obviously artificial footsteps. A lot of them: down marble courthouse hallways and up staircases. Or on a rainy sidewalk, where we hear the staccato tap of pumps with 3-inch heels, while the character was actually wearing Doc Martens.
We movie buffs know about the Foley artist, who adds the realistic snaps and pops and squeaks and thereby enhances the soundtrack of "real life," but we shouldn't have to think about him DURING the film. Unfortunately, "Criminal Law" breaks this essential rule. So I have no one to blame but myself for watching it from beginning to end. I wanted to like it...but I couldn't.
Gary Oldman plays a defense lawyer who helps a guilty man go free. When he discovers what he's done, Oldman spends the rest of the movie trying to get the killer. (The opening title is a quote about monster hunters becoming the monsters they hunt, an interesting idea that isn't really explored the way it could have been.)
The idea that a savvy former prosecutor—now defending the criminals he used to send to jail—is surprised to find that his client (Kevin Bacon) is guilty is just one of the silly conceits of this silly movie. Another is a lawyer who's willing to chuck his whole career to make sure justice is done, especially when it's not at all necessary. Can't the police catch this guy? He's not exactly keeping a low profile.
In the course of all this, we are treated to scenes of Gary Oldman in a wife-beater, whipping up a gourmet dinner for one in an immaculate architectural house; Gary Oldman in those painfully tiny '80s gym shorts, playing handball, or possibly squash; Gary Oldman naked, having truly embarrassing-to-watch sex with "Ellen" (a dreadful performance) interspersed with scenes of handball (or possibly squash); and generally a lot of Gary Oldman in a variety of GQ poses.
I'm not sure who to blame for the surfeit of uncomfortable and unconvincing raw emotion in this movie. Is it the writer's fault? The director's? Both Oldman and Bacon are usually wonderful actors. But I can't remember a movie with this much male-to-male crying.
"Criminal Law" takes itself far too seriously, and we can't take it seriously enough. I was sure Oldman and Bacon were co-producers; they weren't—but it was that kind of movie.