by Ryan Lewellen
In 2002, when all of Homeland Security was certain the next major terrorist attack would hit L.A. (or so Secret In Their Eyes assures us), the FBI and LAPD have joined forces. Officer Jessica Cobb (Julia Roberts) and Agent Raymond Kasten (Chiwetel Ejiofor) discover the body of Cobb’s daughter in a dumpster near the masque they have been assigned to watch. Cobb, completely distraught, takes a leave of absence, and Kasten, completely obsessed, takes it upon himself to track down and prosecute the killer, shirking his responsibilities to his country. To complicate matters further, Kasten has a pathetic schoolboy’s crush on the newest addition to The D.A.’s office, Claire Sloan (Nicole Kidman). What follows is a somewhat compelling crime drama about so many things: the post-9/11 world, racism, police brutality, the war on terror, obsession, gender politics, vengeance, and is primarily, somehow, not really about anything.
Though the thrust of the film takes place in the past, the film begins, and is repeatedly interrupted by the present, a time almost exclusively denoted by the color of Ejiofor’s hair, and an absence of make-up on Roberts’ face. When the latter was off-screen, I often found it difficult to place them. That temporal confusion is the least of this film’s problems, as the intriguing premise quickly dissolves into a series of Oscar Clip performances. No one is ever stunned in silence, not one characters emotes quietly. No, this is November, and it is time for everyone to scream and shout and lose their damn minds over every narrative turn, big or small. The acting isn’t terrible, but rather than generating sympathy for fictional characters, it mostly inspires eye-rolling at celebrities burning down the veil of the theater.
It’s damaging for a film like this to lose that illusion, because once you can see through it, the film loses its hold on you, and when our heroes lose our empathy in doing crazy things in the name of justice, we get the impression the film has something to say. Yet, time and again, scene after scene calls up a substantive conflict in the context of the war on terror, and the film seems oblivious to it. Secret plays like a straight-forward crime story, clueless to how much it could accidentally be saying about the post-9/11 world. For example, there is a not-so-surprising twist after the primary conflict has been resolved, and the development practically screams at us, “THIS SCENE IS ABOUT GUANTANAMO BAY!” Yet, as far as we can tell visually, or in dialogue, or in the film’s following events, this scene has no relevance outside of its small narrative.
Chiefly, the blame can be placed on how dense and disparate the movie is constructed thematically. If it were focused on one subject, it would be obsession. Each of our three leads is focused on something which becomes harmful to them, and sure, one could argue that is significant as a microcosm for how our government fights terrorism. The problem is any big-picture view the movie might have is tremendously derailed by the obnoxious love story between Ejiofor and Kidman. It is meaningless, bereft of chemistry and painfully uninteresting. It is gracelessly muscled-in, ironically mirroring the manner in which Agent Kasten shoves his way into so many blunders, especially his affair with Mrs. Sloan.
The overwrought performances, uncomfortable romance, and lack of focus add up to something surprisingly inept, considering all the talent on hand. The cast is filled-out with Alfred Molina, Dean Norris, and Michael Kelly, and although I never saw Captain Phillips, I understand writer/director Billy Ray received some high marks for his work on that film. It all lends to a sneaking suspicion the Argentine film this movie inspired must have been lost in translation. Perhaps we should all seek the original out instead.
