Review Date: 12:16:0:3
Released in 2001 to absolutely no fan fare, The 51st State is one of those odd little mutant pictures you here so little about. A rarity in today’s over-hyped, under-performing action juggernauts, five minutes of this movie will give you more for your money than anything De Ah-nuld’s been in lately. (Except his latest picture, The Govenator.) Hell, just look at the line up: it reads like an international all-star team. We’ve got a vet Hong Kong director, everyone’s favorite doss cunt…and Mr. Bad Motherfucker Himself, Samuel L. Jackson.
Let it never be said that Shaft can’t pick his projects (Jackson also produced this one, and pulled enough strings to import Yu). Nor does Samuel L. Badass seem to have any problem with unabashedly repeating himself. Give him that one note and he’ll hit it ‘till it breaks and make us poor action fans love him every step of the way. Because you gotta see: Sam just sweats Cool, and he put all the Cool Juices he could spare into this little piece of fluff. Not that anyone noticed.
But you’ll notice now. Oh, yes. After all, you’re just as tired of the cookie cutter crap clogging our communal crap-cinima counters (whew…I’m getting better at this alliteration thing). Right?* Every action fan knows the pickings out there are slimmer than Mic Jagger’s neck. Don’t you? You better say “yes,” damnit, because I’m getting sick of all this bullshit. I’m serious. I think I might just snap and L.A.’s only a day away. Sometimes I feel like if I had an H-bomb and some time off I’d do it just to do it. Yeah. H-bomb would do the trick. Or a tidal wave. Asteroid strike. Earthquake. Or maybe a giant monster all-out attack. Yeah. That’d be cool.*
*[Doc Psy wishes to state that he believes strongly in the principals of none violence and would never condone the destruction of Los Angeles. He also wishes to say: “However, I doubt Bush, Dick and Collin would loose much sleep over the deaths of so many rich liberals. No more than I would, say, at the destruction of the American South East. I've been thinking about that one, too.”]
Until I realized that, by destroying my enemy, I had inevitably destroyed a part of myself, as well as a primary mirror, which I often use to reflect my own beliefs and judgment calls. I’d probably light some candles and cry, then go drinking and feel better. Might even crack open that Book of Mormon my girlfriend gave me and have a few revelations.
In fact, that’s it. Nathan: Bomb Los Angeles and I’ll join your religion. C’mon man, I’ve seen L.A. It’s a pretty fair trade.
I was trying to make a point before we wandered (I haven’t slept in some time). Namely it’s nice to know that every once in awhile, a fresh wind still blows. Even if that wind threatens to lift up Jackson’s kilt.
Yes, I said, “kilt.” We’ll get to that.
But first, let’s get to Elmo McElroy (Jackson). As the brief prologue (where we glimpse Jackson in full ‘fro with matching beard) unfolds, we see Elmo driving home from his graduation ceremony, blithely puffing away on one of those Apotheosis Joints you only see in the movies. Things head south when John Q. Law pulls Elmo over and gives him the spin. And if you think that can blow a man’s buzz, check out the rest of this plotline.
Fast-forward thirty years to downtown L.A. Unable to get any real chemistry work with a drug bust on his record, we find Elmo doing the only thing he can: manufacturing drugs for The Lizard (a not-so-horribly scarred Meatloaf), local crime lord and unredeemable asshole. Tired of slaving away under this fat (though not too fat) bastard, Elmo does the only thing a Sam Jackson character can do: he plants a bomb in The Lizard’s meeting place and flees the country.
Bad news is, The Lizard miraculously survives his brush with Master Windu and immediately places a contract on Elmo with deadeye hitwoman Dakota Phillips (Emily Mortimer). You see, Elmo, the “Chemical Brother,” has managed to concoct his own superdrug: P.O.S. 51, a little blue pill (ridiculously) stronger than any chemical on the market and (most importantly) made from one hundred percent over-the-counter ingredients. Elmo plans to sell his happy pills to the highest bidder. He just has to go where the money is.
Things take a sharp left when “where the money is” turns out to be Liverpool, England. And like all “Crime” flicks set in England, this Liverpool is overflowing with gangsters, skinheads, diseased dirt bags and sycophants. Once word of Elmo’s wonder drug gets out the entire underworld comes gunning for him. Can one lone motherfucker in a kilt survive an entire city’s worth of Guy Ritchie rejects?
Need I remind you said motherfucker is played by Sam Jackson?
When my friend Rachel told me she had a new Jackson flick on tap I came a-running. Because in these days of Will Smith and (god help us) Martin Lawrence I just can’t help longing for the days of yore. That great mid-90s glut that brought us Pulp Fiction, Demolition Man and all manner of over-the-top action eye candy. Before Big Willie stopped rapping. Before Vin Desil even had a contract. Before Michael Bay made enough money to smother a trunk full small, fuzzy puppies. Before The Matrix, when action movies could be as esoteric as they damn well pleased without any silly, watered-down philosophy to explain What It All Means.
I didn’t know I could actually feel nostalgia for those times, but there you are. If nothing else, it shows you how far things have gone.
So The 51st State is at once a throwback and a step ahead, combining the off-the-wall personalities of English crime flicks with the all-American charm of (you guessed it) Samuel L. Jackson. Whether negotiating with zonked out drug barons or beating the crap out of unruly skin heads, Jackson handles every situation with nary a blink and enough style to spare. Hard as it is to fathom, Jackson is actually the straight man here, opposite none other than Robert “Begbie” Carlyle as the beer drinking, soccer loving, Liverpool thug, Felix DeSouza.
What’s an action movie without the eternal Buddy Element, anyway? And while their relationship follows the usual arc we (thankfully) don’t pause for any shots of Our Heroes sharing some sort of half-assed beer and bar-bee-q bonding scene. That’s not what this is about. To hell with human interest, I want to see the black guy in the kilt beat the shit out of skinheads with his golf clubs.
Then there’s the obligatory Romantic Sub-plot between Felix and Dakota. Those two were quite the item once upon a time. And if you’re thinking their reconciliation will in some way allow for a nice, easy out for our “good guys” and a horrible death for our “bad guys” then congratulations. Quit your day job, murder your family, burn down your house and move to Hollywood on the insurance money. You’ll have a career waiting for you.
Seriously, though, while their intimate moments (usually involving one or more handguns) do grind things to a halt, they are mercifully short and never scene-swallowing sugar fests. Little pauses in what is otherwise an onslaught of double dealing, mass slaughter, and bad attitude.
Have I harped too much on Sam Jackson’s performance? Maybe I’m just excited he’s finally back in a leading role that lets him breath a bit. Purple lightsaber aside, he’s too damn arrogant to be a Jedi, and too cool to be a cop. The Jackson I’ve always idolized is the Criminal, and we deal with that bad mother fucker from start to finish here. Sure, Lone Man on a Personal Quest for Justice is fine, but how many actors can make you laugh at, cheer at, and idolize a drug manufacturer? That’s talent. That’s just plain cool.
So you have this big black man in a kilt surrounded by some of the whitest white people on that side of the “pound.” And how are they, you ask? Well, tip top, son. They say their lines, move through their parts, and generally seem to be having a good time. None of their characters are especially fleshy, but then, this is mental junk food we’re talking here. Junk food smart enough to be interesting…or at least distracting.
Is this the Forgotten Gem of 2001? Sorry, no. Beside its more famous relatives, The 51st State looks noticeably pale. The script has none of Quentin’s pregnant-violence, and not nearly enough of Richie’s inky humor. Instead, there’s this nagging sensation I get when things are good but not great. Especially with Ronny Yu behind the camera. And while he doesn’t have Woo’s stylistics, I’ll take him over Michael Bay any year. There’s a reason Jackson hired him, and I’ll tell you what it is…as soon as I refresh my trick memory with a rash of Ronny Yu flicks.
But look: Ronny’s been churning out bang-bangs for the last thirty years. Nobody does “hard cunt” better than Robert Carlyle. And if you want a big black bad ass you pick up the phone and call Sam Jackson.
It’s not a question of “Why is this movie good.” Read the back of the box and it becomes obvious. The real question is, “Why isn’t this movie better? Why isn’t it more?” Oh sure, it’s all slick and stylized, but I can’t decide whether this disguises or enhances the movie’s lack of real substance.
In the end, its not like I care.
The movie’s (mostly English) cast plays things nice a straight for the duration, adding to that wry sense of comedy we love so much in our British movies. The only real ham on the table is Jackson, but he was working under a Ham Clause when Pulp Fiction was still a twinkle in ol’ QT’s eye. Rather than ruining for everyone by going overboard, Sam does what he always does and plays it Cool.
Carlyle could’ve gotten lazy and gone for the stripped-down version of Transpotting’s Begbie, but thank God no. You can actually see him being inspired to reach by the much better actor who shares most of his scenes. It’s so funny its almost endearing. He says his lines, shoots his gun, and spouts of a steady stream of English profanity. No real complaints here. He’s a bit cookie cutter, but serviceable.
Then again, how could I let you go without giving you a dose of Bitch n’ Moan. So here goes: while its fun, fast and all that jazz, there’s just the slightest problem with internal harmony. The individualist, America, one-man-army crime movie jibes against the multi-angled, British ensemble piece. So what happens here is what always happens when two members of different species mate: the offspring is born sterile.
That’s why everyone forgot about this picture. It’s well intended, but ultimately shoots a blank. An interesting variation that ultimately went nowhere.
But for the burnt out cynic like yours truly, this was ninety minutes of good old fun. Even the grosser, dick-and-fart joke moments work well enough to hold me. When’s the last time that happened?
Action fans: there’s better things out there than there are on the New Release shelf. Hell, there’s better things in my pants than there are on the New Release shelf. Just watch the damn movie, okay? Give Sam Jackson your money. Write it off as a charitable contribution to American cinema. We either support the good crap or they’ll make nothing but bad. And I mean bad.
Like the man said, we gotta take the power back. And the only way to do that they’ll recognize is with money. I can’t stress this enough. So find this flick and waste some time with it. I did, and I’m not sorry. Hell, it’s December, there’s no sun (except in fucking California) so I’ll take what I can get. Doc Psy is many things, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Gs
