A film
review by Claudia Puig, USA TODAY, on December 24, 2001.
The Majestic is named after a dilapidated movie
palace that the movie's stars, Jim
Carrey and Martin Landau,
renovate and reopen. If only they had managed to overhaul this overly
sentimental movie while they were restoring things.
Both
Landau and Carrey deserve better material. Carrey is miscast as Peter Appleton,
a '50s-era B-movie writer who is blacklisted, loses his identity after an
accident and discovers his inner integrity after being embraced by the kindly
denizens of a California town. When Carrey breaks into an aw, shucks smile, you can spot the maniacal trickster lurking
beneath the bland demeanor that the part imposes on him. It's not that he
should star only in wild-eyed comedic roles. He was superb as Andy Kaufman in Man on the Moon and well cast as the
goofy but well-meaning dupe in The Truman
Show. But those films had an edge that allowed Carrey to vent his darker,
unpredictable side.
One
hopes that this is a temporary deviation for Carrey and that he hasn't decided
to follow in Robin Williams' sappy footsteps. Both men have a witty cynicism
that has worked well in more complex material.
Once in
town, Carrey's character is spotted by Harry Trimble (Landau) and mistaken for
the son he lost in World War II. With little memory of his own past, Peter
begins to believe he is the prodigal son and gives no more thought to his
Hollywood problems.
The
McCarthy era has been depicted more convincingly in other films. Peter's banal
work would have been unlikely to call attention to him, much less inspire the
scrutiny of commie-baiting witch hunters.
Further
straining believability, the cops sent to arrest Peter for failing to testify
before a government committee stage a dramatic face-off right on Main Street.
And the confrontation just happens to fall on the day that his accident-induced
amnesia clears, the same day as Landau's funeral. Meanwhile, the flag-waving
townspeople who had embraced him all turn on him as one. Even his brainy blonde
love interest, Adele (Laurie Holden),
can't resist doing her own preaching.
Director
Frank Darabont, whose The Shawshank Redemption was a better
example of his talent, sought to make a Frank Capra-style feel-good picture.
But he produced a pale imitation that challenges credulity and tries too hard
to win our hearts with schmaltz.
Labels:
drama
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