Dir: Jonathon Hensleigh. Starring: Tom Jane, John Travolta, Rebecca Romijn-Stamos, Laura Elena Harring, Samantha Mathis.
When I heard that there was going to be an adaptation of The Punisher made, I have to confess that I was confused. After all, the comic strip’s testosterone-soaked misanthropy seemed designed specifically for alienated teenage boys addicted to nu-metal. How, I wondered, could they broaden that scope? The answer, basically, is that they don’t. The Punisher is grim, bleak and depressing; a horrible exercise in nihilism that left a horrible taste in my mouth. The world needs this film like a hole in the head.
The story is one we’ve heard a million times before. Frank Castle is a cop on the verge of retirement, but his last job has angered some mafia types, who kill his family, and thus justify the unmitigated bloodbath we spend the rest of the film watching. It’s interesting, in the comic book, only Frank’s wife and child are killed. In the film, however, director Jonathon Hensleigh places the massacre at a family reunion, so, when the bad guys say that all of Frank’s family is dead, they really mean it.
Despite the simplistic nature of this set-up, the film spends about forty minutes on it. Presumably, this is to give us sympathy for the alcoholic sociopath that Frank - unsurprisingly - becomes. I don’t know why they bothered. If Death Wish made you feel a bit uncomfortable, this movie is going to have you weeping blood by the end. Frank embarks on an odyssey of killing that is both banal, and
None of this is helped by Hensleigh’s shocking direction. Perhaps best known as the guy who wrote Armageddon, Hensliegh has directed this film with the stylistic marks of a schizophrenic. From ludicrously lit and hackneyed scenes clearly influenced by Magnum, P.I, he jumps to a squirmy, heavy-filtered violence, and back again. Throw in some truly awkward comedy and token attempts at humanising, and the film really does become greater than its parts. What, before, would have had me merely disgusted actually became disturbing. By time the credits rolled, I felt like I had watched a snuff movie, and unfortunately I wasn’t the one being put out of my misery.
Stuck in the thankless role of Frank, a very beefed-up Thomas Jane does the best he can, but it’s nowhere near enough. In the final, tortuous scene, triumphant orchestral flourishes signal to us that we should be rejoicing that Frank has become an unstoppable killing machine that knows no mercy, but God - if anyone should know, it’s America - is that what the world needs right now?
F.
Patrick Garson.
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