Say whaa? Wesley Snipes is back?
If this is Brooklyn's Finest, then the rest of the burroughs are in trouble. Overlong, intense, and woozy, its watchability is earned on pure potential, with a letdown that's constantly in the works/woodwork. In sum, forgivable badness shall not be forgiven. I.A. should've been all over this shit.
THREE TALES, loosely interwoven if not connected by default: Suicidal, whiskey-in-the-morning, prostitute-lovin' beat cop (Richard Gere), meets can't-pay-the-bills, sporadically murderous, poor-excuse-for-an-Italian cop (Hawke), meets undercover-too-long, wants to get out, conflicted by multiple loyalities to-be detective who happens to live in a Manhattan penthouse (Cheadle). If you're clichéd out by this point, then you should just get out. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. When the going gets rough, well... Admittedly, it's kind of neat how we 'ooze' between the trio, but "oozing" could just as well be interpreted as "clunky" with a complete lack of narrative transition on all levels. Flat-tire, ca-lump, ca-lump, ca-lump, but driving really fast. You can practically hear it in that relentlessly-stock score.
A tale of casting: Ethan Hawke, miscast, Richard Gere, miscast, Don Cheadle, typecast, Wesley Snipes, finally cast, director Antoine Fuqua, under-cast, writer Michael C. Martin, not cast. Elsewhere, Ellen Barkin chews up scenery like she'd been starved of it (more or less true). In fact, she may have gone ahead and eaten Lili Taylor's seeing that her fellow veteran actress gets just about none. Vincent D'Onofrio's opening cameo wouldn't have been spoiled if he didn't get shot in the face...whoops, spoiler. And that homeless guy from The Road just can't escape being that homeless guy from The Road. I'm sorry, Michael K. Williams, I really am.
If there's one thing to take away from Brooklyn, it's got to be the valiant return of Wesley Snipes. The part is wonderfully tailor-made: after an eight-year prison sentence, humbled and everyman drug-dealer "Caz" (full name Cassanova, no joke) wants to get out altogether—still street-smart through—giving a great little speech about ethnicity-specific modes of torture. He's just great. So cool.
Somewhere, at some point, there's some mentioning of the word "Tact." The irony of this goes without saying... tactful, perhaps? Great moments are tied down by the block of melodrama that is Martin's amateur-hour script... Literally, imagine for a moment Brooklyn's Finest as a piece of spandex, and then drop a concrete block in the middle of it... naturally, being spandex, it's not going to break, but it's going to bend, alright, ooh, it's gonna get real bent out of shape. I don't care who you cast, or who you have shoot it...Brooklyn's Finest already shot themselves, and it's a damn shame they did.
*1/2 out of ****
~ Patrick Fryberger
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