I came to this movie after watching the excellent 2016 "De Palma" documentary, even if it was only allocated some five minutes discussion time and more pertinently, the recommended podcast "The Plot Thickens" series two, devoted to "The Devil's Candy", journalist Julie Salomon's best-selling account of how this big-budget blockbuster tanked so badly at the box-office.
Based on Tom Wolff's best-selling novel, which I've not read, reportedly a scabrous takedown of the shakers and movers in the overheated New York money-markets, what I saw instead was a rather crude farce filled with rather detestable people in mostly un-comedic situations with a tagged-on morality-stoking ending.
Like the scenes where Melanie Griffith's character's ancient, cuckolded husband literally talks himself to death in a swanky restaurant or when an old flame of Bruce Willis's gonzo-journalist wants to pass to him a piece of hot gossip but feels the need to do so by first photocopying her bare behind in front of him. What's the saying, laugh i nearly cried or died, either works in this case.
Tom Hanks plays the hot-shot bond-trader who's day goes from bad to worse when after he accidentally reveals to his wife that he has a mistress, then ends up in the Bronx in the wee small hours where, to escape a car-jacking by two young black youths, Griffith drives his car over one of their attackers, who later dies from his injuries.
The point is made, forcibly, that money is the root of all evil as everyone and his mom, piles into this bottom-of-page-5 story to magnify it for their own gain, most notably Willis's washed-up journalist, but also the local black religious leader, the conveniently up-for-re-election D. A. and yes, even the dead boy's mother. The narrative slithers along until Morgan Freeman's almighty judge gets to tie everything up in a big bow with his "let's all be nice" grandstanding speech at the end which, given all that's gone before feels like an almost Capra-esque attempt to right all the previous wrongs and send movie-goers home in a better mood but it's akin to taking a swig of mouthwash after gorging on a triple-hamburger, you're never going to get rid of that nasty aftertaste so easily.
It wouldn't be a De Palma movie without some cool visuals and camera set-ups but really the movie is all glitz and no grit, all harsh and no heart and ultimately all smoke and no fire.
Based on Tom Wolff's best-selling novel, which I've not read, reportedly a scabrous takedown of the shakers and movers in the overheated New York money-markets, what I saw instead was a rather crude farce filled with rather detestable people in mostly un-comedic situations with a tagged-on morality-stoking ending.
Like the scenes where Melanie Griffith's character's ancient, cuckolded husband literally talks himself to death in a swanky restaurant or when an old flame of Bruce Willis's gonzo-journalist wants to pass to him a piece of hot gossip but feels the need to do so by first photocopying her bare behind in front of him. What's the saying, laugh i nearly cried or died, either works in this case.
Tom Hanks plays the hot-shot bond-trader who's day goes from bad to worse when after he accidentally reveals to his wife that he has a mistress, then ends up in the Bronx in the wee small hours where, to escape a car-jacking by two young black youths, Griffith drives his car over one of their attackers, who later dies from his injuries.
The point is made, forcibly, that money is the root of all evil as everyone and his mom, piles into this bottom-of-page-5 story to magnify it for their own gain, most notably Willis's washed-up journalist, but also the local black religious leader, the conveniently up-for-re-election D. A. and yes, even the dead boy's mother. The narrative slithers along until Morgan Freeman's almighty judge gets to tie everything up in a big bow with his "let's all be nice" grandstanding speech at the end which, given all that's gone before feels like an almost Capra-esque attempt to right all the previous wrongs and send movie-goers home in a better mood but it's akin to taking a swig of mouthwash after gorging on a triple-hamburger, you're never going to get rid of that nasty aftertaste so easily.
It wouldn't be a De Palma movie without some cool visuals and camera set-ups but really the movie is all glitz and no grit, all harsh and no heart and ultimately all smoke and no fire.