Passion Play Mitch Glazer

Passion Play Mitch Glazer
Some turds just won't flush. On paper, one can see how Mickey Rourke and Bill Murray could have found the project appealing, save for the continuously horrible dialogue. Rourke plays washed-up jazz trumpeter Nate Pool, a pathetic opportunist who beds the wife of Murray's stone-faced mobster, Happy Shannon. This doesn't sit well with Shannon, whom has Pool dragged out to the desert to be offed. As the shot Pool expects to take his life rings out, his would-be reaper falls down dead and some white robed dudes with guns run past him. Wandering through the desert, Pool stumbles into a carnival freak show, looking for a phone. Instead, he finds Lily (Megan Fox, Jennifer's Body), a woman with wings. Assuming fakery, Pool flirts and asks if he can sit with her for a drink; she lets him believe what he wants, but he later sees her plucking her feathers and crying. Oh, why a lovely young lady would be interested in craggy old Pool is explained by fandom; she has his old jazz records. Rhys Ifans (Human Nature) shows up as king of the carnies and loses his shit on Pool, believing he intends to steal Lily away from him. Facing death again, Lily saves Pool's ass and the two of them flee and begin a romance as Pool cooks up a selfish scheme to make amends with Happy Shannon. Director Mitch Glazer should shoulder the blame for what's awry with Passion Play, which is pretty much everything. Bill Murray predictably fares the best, finding a way to seem like he's making fun of the very film he's in, which is worthy of plenty of derisive scoffing. Rourke and even the much-maligned Megan Fox really try to find the emotional motivation of their characters, but are left floundering for direction. You almost get the sense that Rourke has the impression he's trying takes that'll be discussed and tinkered with, but those rudderless passes made the final cut. The editing and pacing are sub-amateur at best and the sound mixing is especially troubling for a movie about a trumpet player. With a song already playing, Pool just brings the instrument to his lips and the tune continues. There's no decibel difference to suggest any sort of reality in his playing. Even more frustrating is a blatant continuity break during the climax that serves only to avoid a topless Fox, which had just been displayed (sorry pervs, no nipples for you!). Change the shot angle, rewrite the scene, recast the part (there was already a naked lady with Jesus tattooed on her ass), but don't treat the audience like blind idiots, please. Add a bunch of pointless and awfully obvious green screen to outdoor scenes, a limp twist that alters the context of the story, but ads no value, and you've got one of cinema's true steamers. Flush, damn you, flush! (eOne)