David O'ConnellThe Hunting Party
June 3rd 2009 03:39
How writer-director Richard Shepard managed such a stunning, unwittingly self-made, negative reversal of fortune - from the deliriously subversive, near-perfection of 2005's The Matador to the unmitigated disaster of The Hunting Party two years later - will long remain a cinematic mystery. Not that this ludicrously pitched film of a trio of journalists making their own deluded, illogical play for a mass murderer concealed in the hills of Montenegro is entirely unwatchable. It's based on an article from Esquire by Scott K. Anderson too and begins with the assertion that "only the most ridiculous parts of this story are true".
The casting could certainly have been worse; Terrence Howard has enough screen presence to warrant a single viewing of almost anything, whilst jittery newcomer Jesse Eisenberg’s endearingly pre-pubescent innocence and Richard Gere’s predictable facial mechanics are always guaranteed laughs.
Renegade newsman Simon Hunt (Gere) was the star of his network, constantly risking life and limb as he delved into war-ravaged terrain to relay provocative images to the rest of the world. His star cameraman, Duck (Howard), was by his side every step of the way and together they formed a notorious, unstoppable alliance that no bullet could tear apart. Their time together ended famously however when Hunt flamed out on air, his profanity-laced tirade earning an immediate dismissal, and after demeaning himself through work for second-rate cable stations, he disappeared off the face of the map.
Now, a few years later, Duck returns to Bosnia with the network’s head anchor and junior minion (Eisenberg) in tow, where Hunt magically reappears, dropping hints of a potential lead for a story that will restore him to the big time. He will only divulge details of its enormity if Duck will assist, and dragging the fresh-faced cadet into the cradle of war with them, the trio head off in search of the biggest fry imaginable: a monstrous despot known as The Fox (Ljubomir Kerekes), sought but never found by every government intelligence agency in the world.
Was Shepard attempting to make a serious drama or a stirring satirical comedy? Even as the end credits began to roll - with their puerile pot shots at the world’s unenthusiastic response to locating war criminals - I still had no idea. Sure, elements of a film that could boast of addressing strictly adult subject matter seem present: the sporadic voicing of a desperate need for accountability; the flashbacks of carnage, bodies torn asunder; philosophical ponderings – even if trite - about the sustained atrocities committed in these savaged regions.
But incongruities mark the other side of the ledger like a plague: Duck’s designer clothes that never get so much as scuffed; the scenic landscapes occasionally spotted with unconvincing rubble; the trio’s speculative exchanges, always ludicrously spoken within earshot of the locals; the hotel rooms without a speck of grit; the pointless pantomime of Duck’s rueful phone calls to his gorgeous girlfriend lazing about in her bikini on a boat somewhere in Greece; and most impressive of all – a testicle-squeezing midget thrown in for good measure.
The Hunting Party, despite remaining entertaining on a basic level, wantonly surrenders itself to ridicule so often that it makes you wonder about the possible influence of nefarious saboteurs in the director's rewriting process. Either way, it’s a bitterly disappointing fall from grace for Shepard whose earlier film Oxygen, preceding The Matador, is another fine example of what he’s capable of, invalidating the notion of a one-off fluke.
The casting could certainly have been worse; Terrence Howard has enough screen presence to warrant a single viewing of almost anything, whilst jittery newcomer Jesse Eisenberg’s endearingly pre-pubescent innocence and Richard Gere’s predictable facial mechanics are always guaranteed laughs.
Renegade newsman Simon Hunt (Gere) was the star of his network, constantly risking life and limb as he delved into war-ravaged terrain to relay provocative images to the rest of the world. His star cameraman, Duck (Howard), was by his side every step of the way and together they formed a notorious, unstoppable alliance that no bullet could tear apart. Their time together ended famously however when Hunt flamed out on air, his profanity-laced tirade earning an immediate dismissal, and after demeaning himself through work for second-rate cable stations, he disappeared off the face of the map.
Now, a few years later, Duck returns to Bosnia with the network’s head anchor and junior minion (Eisenberg) in tow, where Hunt magically reappears, dropping hints of a potential lead for a story that will restore him to the big time. He will only divulge details of its enormity if Duck will assist, and dragging the fresh-faced cadet into the cradle of war with them, the trio head off in search of the biggest fry imaginable: a monstrous despot known as The Fox (Ljubomir Kerekes), sought but never found by every government intelligence agency in the world.
Was Shepard attempting to make a serious drama or a stirring satirical comedy? Even as the end credits began to roll - with their puerile pot shots at the world’s unenthusiastic response to locating war criminals - I still had no idea. Sure, elements of a film that could boast of addressing strictly adult subject matter seem present: the sporadic voicing of a desperate need for accountability; the flashbacks of carnage, bodies torn asunder; philosophical ponderings – even if trite - about the sustained atrocities committed in these savaged regions.
Benjamin (Jesse Eisenberg), Duck (Terrence Howard) and Simon (Richard Gere)
But incongruities mark the other side of the ledger like a plague: Duck’s designer clothes that never get so much as scuffed; the scenic landscapes occasionally spotted with unconvincing rubble; the trio’s speculative exchanges, always ludicrously spoken within earshot of the locals; the hotel rooms without a speck of grit; the pointless pantomime of Duck’s rueful phone calls to his gorgeous girlfriend lazing about in her bikini on a boat somewhere in Greece; and most impressive of all – a testicle-squeezing midget thrown in for good measure.
The Hunting Party, despite remaining entertaining on a basic level, wantonly surrenders itself to ridicule so often that it makes you wonder about the possible influence of nefarious saboteurs in the director's rewriting process. Either way, it’s a bitterly disappointing fall from grace for Shepard whose earlier film Oxygen, preceding The Matador, is another fine example of what he’s capable of, invalidating the notion of a one-off fluke.
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