Brooklyn's Finest - Review

With Brooklyn's Finest, Antoine Fuqua returns to the cop-genre; returning with him is Ethan Hawke. Also coming for the ride-along is Don Cheadle, Richard Gere, and the re-emergence of Wesley Snipes to the big screen.

The film weaves three different tales of three different types of cops, each caught in a career crossroads. Don Cheadle is an undercover agent on the brink of ending his case, which has cost him his regular life as his wife is ready to divorce him, but once he sees it through, he'll be settled behind a desk. Ethan Hawke plays a loving husband and father of what seems like a dozen children with twins on the way. He needs to get his family out of their home and in to a bigger and better one, but money is the one thing he doesn't have. Richard Gere plays a self-loathing street cop on the verge of retiring from an uneventful, unimpressive, two-decade career. Wesley Snipes, back as an actor not an action star, is the boss of a drug ring that has been freed after eight years in prison, and it is up to Don Cheadle's character to end his operations.

The performances expected from actors of their caliber are great. Ethan Hawke earned an Oscar nomination working on Training Day with Fuqua, and while he will probably be overlooked he should earn another one for his performance in this film. He went the extra mile to not only act as a morally, deeply conflicted officer, but his appearance alone shows you that he is under some kind of stress, and the opening sequence (with a surprise cameo by the uber-talented Vincent D'Onofrio) lets the audience know what his limits are, only so he can continue to push them even further.

Don Cheadle seems lost at times, which is exactly what the character is. He wants to do himself and his dwindling home-life right by his actions, but he has been undercover so long, he has found himself caring too much for the one person necessary to return normality to his life, which is Wesley Snipes, who, in my opinion, didn't get enough screen-time, but that is my opinion as a fan of his work, but he can still act finely without throwing a single punch.

Richard Gere's character, the retiree, comes off as almost a coward, if not in fact a coward. He has spent his entire time on the police force wanting to just stay alive rather than serve and protect. No one really respects him because no one really knows him, except prostitute whom he sees as his only viable relationship; and once the ending draws near, anyone with a brain of healthy oxygen can tell where the story is going for all three men, which imposes a crushing blow to a film that could have been great but ends up being only good.

Antoine Fuqua brings a damaged, pot-hole gritty look to the film, once again using color sequences to stimulate the visuals and the tone of the moment. You see darkness because there are dark things happening, and the lighted segments are few and far between as they show you the tiny traces of hope that the story and its characters cling to.

Brooklyn's Finest had all the capabilities of being something special but falls just flat of it. There are performances worth seeing from everyone involved but if expectations are too high, the grade of disappointment will vary from person to person. One thing is certain though, if you do not live a life like these characters, you will be much more appreciative of it because sometimes the only silver lining is the one people see once their heart stops beating.

Buried Enlightenment

I stumbled down another gravel road with cars parked all along each side. I figured I was on Roseberry St. because there was a lady sweeping the sidewalk in front of the restaurant with the red door that brewed good coffee, and I figured that lady was Mrs. Maldonado. It must've been because she bid me a good morning, like she knew me, or like she really wanted me to purchase a cup of the eatery's coffee.

I said hello when I walked in; to whom, hell if I know. A publicly jumbled retort replied, but some arms waved in the air where the cooks were, so they must've known I was a regular, which was great, but I was clueless. I just know I liked the smell of the place, but not the people in it. Not even myself.

The coffee arrived - so did questions.

"Did you hear about Mr. Dreg?" Mrs. Maldonado asked.

I murmured something that must've been a "No" as I tasted the coffee, but instead of a taste I just got a new numbness, but it was an awakening numbness, so it was either bad coffee or Irish coffee.

"Si', he died," said the blurred lady that was starting to form into Mrs. Maldonado, but I was still ready to punch it if it wasn't her.

"There's a wake?" I asked as I dove back into the bad coffee.

"Right now," Blurry Maldonado said. "Across the street, at Mr. Garza's funeral home?"

It made me wonder, which made me ask, "What time is it?"

"Enrique!" the Mrs. Blurry Maldonado shouted. "Qual es el tiempo?"

"Nine!" the voice said.

I walked across the street - Garza knew me too well, so he let me in.

"Was he a friend?" he asked.

"He was somebody," was all I could say. "Is he ready for show?"

"Yes."

"Can I see?"

He was apprehensive, like always, but - like always - he let me have first look. He always let me have first look when it was someone I knew.

There he lied, in his pearl casket. I tried to remember who he was, but I couldn't; but, apparently, my tongue could because I started licking the back of my mouth, gathering saliva, and as I opened my mouth to pay my respects, the only thing that came out was a gigantic gob of spit that landed right between his eyes.

I was satisfied. I bid Garza a good day, and a good show, and muddled my way some place that was serving other things besides bad coffee and bitter dead.

Watched Monsters vs. Aliens; very bleh. Nice effort, but still bleh.

The Price of Knowing

I post shit on the net, yet other than me - who really needs to know these things? There's a needful shadow that surrounds communication; the most necessary delivery is the point. The point can be made with three words or with fifteen dozen; as along as the end-result is a success - what level of success depends on the indivudual's state of mind the moment judgement is cast.

Surviving proves that we are aware of life. Changing our minds proves that we are aware of existence.

I'm typing with a bloody right hand. The weather has been schizophrenic, and being in the recovering-end-stages of an inner ear infection and congestion; My sinuses are not doing too well, being drier than a redheads' bottle of lube. Clearing them proved messy.