"The Bone Collector" could have been another "Se7en," the thrilling
suspense flick starring Brad Pitt, because of its
find-the-clue-leaving-killer premise. Or it could have been an updated
"Rear Window," because the film's lead is paralyzed and confined to a
bed for most of the movie. It also could have been a big-screen version of "The
New Detectives," Discovery's captivating, hour-long look at forensic
scientists and their work. Instead, Denzel Washington's latest film is
none of those. And it'd be a better use of time to stay at home and
watch either movie or the TV show. You certainly won't be disappointed
by any of them.
Despite its inadequacy, "The Bone Collector" will still likely be
compared to both of those feature films, and maybe even called a hybrid
of the 1995 film and Hitchcock's classic. It will likely not be
compared to "Scream," although that's the film it most closely
resembles. That's because "The Bone Collector" exists solely to make
the audience jump and cringe. Still, "Scream" manages to kick "The Bone
Collector"'s ass in terms of suspense, wit, and originality. Sadly,
"The Bone Collector" tries to pass itself off as some sort of highbrow
murder mystery when it's just a gore-fest.
If anything, The Bone Collector excels at delivering adrenaline rushes
and graphic, scream-and-recoil murders. And while the violence is
fleshed-out, if completely gratuitous, the rest of the plot gives us
nothing. There's way too much that remains underdeveloped, although
it's not so blatant that you leave the theatre feeling cheated. As the
previews reveal, the killer targets unsuspecting souls who ride in
his/her cab. While the potential for the audience to leave the theatre
fearing cab rides forever is definitely there, sloppy scenes like the
one that implies that the killer selects victims allows a complete
dismissal of any lingering anxiety. Plus, leaving no room for us to
care, the victims are utterly unsympathetic: two snotty yuppies who are
forced to take a cab because their driver doesn't show; an older man
and an annoying, screeching little girl.
The plot follows a familiar path: Angelina Jolie is a cop about to
leave the street beat. She's the first to respond to a call where she
finds a body. Inexplicably, she locates what she determines is key
evidence, but since it's about to be crushed by an Amtrak train, she
stops the train and starts photographing the scene. Her meticulous work
gets the attention of Lincoln Rhyme, an all-but-retired forensic
detective who was paralyzed and now literally has Dr. Kevorkian on
hold. He recruits her, despite her strenuous protests, to work with him
on the case. This is only the first place where the film's logic
crumbles. It's far too much of a suspension of disbelief to accept
that, besides the immobile Rhyme, there's no other forensic scientist
in New York who can adequately investigate the crime scenes. Still,
Jolie's Amelia Donaghy is sent into each crime scene (alone, in the
dark, of course) to gather evidence at the direction of Rhyme, whose
array of highly sophisticated computer equipment includes a crystal
clear two-way radio.
Together, they try to unravel an already shredded series of clues to
catch an elusive serial killer that everyone just guesses is a serial
killer. Rhyme is supposed to be a brilliant forensic scientist, but
every time he solves on of the "puzzles," we feel like he took a candle
and stabbed a scissors into the side and then announced "I am
holding a candle with scissors stuck in it." It's deduction, but it's not particularly brilliant; then again, the clues he has to work from aren't that creative.
And neither is the identity of the killer. When the killer, in non-killer attire (the killer's killing outfit is clever and original: a black mask) first appeared on screen, I scribbled down that person's name to remind myself of my guess later. And while I was completely blindsided by the twists in "The Sixth Sense" and "Fight Club," I nailed this one completely. What I couldn't possibly have guessed at was the ludicrous,
completely trivial "motive" we're offered. It's preposterous, as is the whole final 15 minutes. When the ending arrives, we feel cheated, primarily because the resolution is so utterly baffling — even if you accept the overarching motive, it's completely me why murdering people would help the killer reach the ends s/he wants. (And if you think the climax is bad, wait until the epilogue!)
And that's mostly because Jeremy Iacone's script is sloppy. Working from Jeffery Deaver's novel (the original author probably deserves and
equal cut of the blame), he shows us too much sometimes and takes gigantic leaps over the chasm of logic at other times. We're shown the
abductions and murders, and while that bumps up the gore quotient and cringe factor, it doesn't add to the suspense. ("Se7en" was much more
haunting, and all we saw was the aftermath of the various murders.) Other times, cardboard-cutout detectives announce the discovery of significant information, but how do they know all of these details? We're never told.
So much goes unanswered that it's a tribute to Noyce — who, with "The
Saint" and "Patriot Games" under his belt, knows a thing or two about
suspense and thrillers — that he doesn't let us give it much of a
second thought. Noyce directs the film like it has a substantive script; Washington and Jolie turn in strong performances,
as does the entire supporting cast. Queen Latifah is especially good as Rhyme's nurse, although she's mainly
relegated to snippy one-liners and telling facial expressions. But not even the most believable performances can save a film with so little backbone.
