“Seven Pounds,” which reunites Will Smith with Gabriele Muccino (who directed him in “The Pursuit of Happyness”),
begins with a series of riddling, chronologically scrambled scenes. A
man calls 911 to report his own suicide. He badgers a blind call-center
employee — whom we suspect will be a significant character, since he’s
played by Woody Harrelson — with complaints and insults. He embraces a
lovely woman in an even lovelier beach house. He visits a nursing home
where he terrorizes an administrator and comforts a resident.
For
a while it is pleasant enough to contemplate these loose ends, and to
tease from them the possible contours of a story. It is never unpleasant
to watch Mr. Smith, who likes to play peekaboo with his charm, hiding
it now and then behind fleeting shadows of anguish or malice. The music
(Angelo Milli’s score and a handful of emotive pop songs) combines with
the deep colors of Philippe Le Sourd’s cinematography to summon up
intensities of sentiment not yet arrived at by the narrative, creating
an interesting frisson of suspense. After a while, though, as the pieces
of the puzzle snap together, curiosity gives way to incredulity.
Near the end of “Seven Pounds” a carefully laminated piece of paper appears, on which someone has written, “DO NOT TOUCH THE JELLYFISH.”
I wouldn’t dream of it, and I’ll take the message as a warning not to
divulge the astonishing things that happen, not all of them involving
aquatic creatures.
Frankly,
though, I don’t see how any review could really spoil what may be among
the most transcendently, eye-poppingly,
call-your-friend-ranting-in-the-middle-of-the-night-just-to-go-over-it-one-more-time
crazily awful motion pictures ever made. I would tell you to go out and
see it for yourself, but you might take that as a recommendation rather
than a plea for corroboration. Did I really see what I thought I saw?
And
I wish I could spell out just what that was, but you wouldn’t believe
me, and the people at Sony might not invite me to any more screenings.
So instead of spelling out what happens in “Seven Pounds,” I’ll just
pluck a few key words and phrases from my notes, and arrange them in the
kind of artful disorder Mr. Muccino seems to favor (feel free to start
crying any time):
Eggplant
parmesan. Printing press. Lung. Bone marrow. Eye transplant. Rosario
Dawson. Great Dane. Banana peel. Jellyfish (but you knew that already).
Car accident. Congestive heart failure.
Huh?
What the ... ? Hang on. What’s he doing? Why? Who does he think he is?
Jesus! That last, by the way, is not an exclamation of shock but rather
an answer to the preceding question, posed with reference to Mr. Smith.
Lately he has taken so eagerly to roles predicated on heroism and
world-saving self-sacrifice — see “I Am Legend” and “Hancock”
— that you may wonder if he has a messiah clause in his contract. Which
is not to say that he doesn’t show range in these films, in which he
credibly plays a research scientist, a dissolute superhero and, in this
latest one, an I.R.S. agent.
An
I.R.S. agent who wants only to help people. This is a nice, small joke
that provides a few grace notes of levity in what is otherwise a
lugubrious exercise in spiritual bushwa. For all its pious, earnest
air, “Seven Pounds” cries out to be remade as an Asian horror movie, so
that the deep, creepy grotesqueness of its governing premise might be
allowed to flourish, rather than to fester beneath the surface.
As
it is, the movie is basically an inverted, twisted tale of revenge. Ben
Thomas, Mr. Smith’s character, is in essence a benevolent vigilante,
harassing, stalking and spying on unsuspecting citizens for their own
good, and also to punish himself. Why such misery should also be
inflicted on an innocent, affirmation-hungry audience — and also on the
marvelous Ms. Dawson, who plays one of Ben’s victim-beneficiaries — is
another matter entirely.
But
maybe I’m approaching this in the wrong way. Maybe “Seven Pounds” isn’t
a spiritual parable about redemption or forgiveness or salvation or
whatever, but rather a collection of practical lessons. Don’t drive
while using a BlackBerry. Fertilize your rose bushes with banana peels —
sorry, that was a spoiler. But please, whatever you do, don’t touch the
jellyfish.
I’m serious. Don’t.
“Seven
Pounds” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Swearing. Soulful
sex by candlelight. Car accident. Eggplant parmesan.
SEVEN POUNDS
Opens on Friday nationwide.
Directed
by Gabriele Muccino; written by Grant Nieporte; director of
photography, Philippe Le Sourd; edited by Hughes Winborne; music by
Angelo Milli; production designer, J. Michael Riva; produced by Todd
Black, James Lassiter, Jason Blumenthal, Steve Tisch and Will Smith; released by Columbia Pictures. Running time: 1 hour 58 minutes.
WITH:
Will Smith (Ben Thomas), Rosario Dawson (Emily Posa), Woody Harrelson
(Ezra), Barry Pepper (Dan) and Michael Ealy (Ben’s Brother).
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