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What possesses such a good writer (Silkwood, When Harry Met Sally) to dabble in filmmaking? Why not give the opportunity to an aspiring young director or an ageing veteran who could use the work? Someone who might put their distinctive mark on the movie. Save for the passable direction of her very fine screenplay in Sleepless in Seattle, Ms. Ephron's outings behind the lens (Mixed Nuts, Michael) have by and large been humdrum affairs. And in this case, it's not even her script that she's trying to protect. That dubious honour goes to Adam Resnick. He's the fellow who co-wrote (with Chris Elliot) and directed the curiously lacklustre Cabin Boy. There are still folks scratching their heads over that turkey.
You have to wonder: What were they thinking in hooking these two up?
Conjecture about the wiles of show biz aside, Ephron and Resnick, which sounds more like a law firm specialising in litigation against dentists who filled teeth with asbestos, bring their very own brand of bad karma to the project. And except for Lisa Kudrow's fetching stint as Crystal, the popular weatherman's greedy accomplice, practically every cast member falls victim to the curse.
Suddenly, likeable John Travolta cannot ingratiate himself with the audience. His local meteorologist is an unwieldy proposition. He's a would-be game show host, but his blind ambition never takes comic flight. And a jowl-attesting weight gain seems to physically echo the actor's discomfort in the role. Similarly miscast, Bill Pullman is terribly awkward as a cretinous cop assigned to the case when fallout from the local star's scheme leads to bloodshed.
Also among the surprisingly name brand cast is Tim Roth as Gig, a nightclub-owning hood and the real brains behind the lottery plot. Michael Rappaport is his Neanderthal, sociopathic, bat-dragging enforcer. And Ed O'Neill (Married With Children) plays the scheming TV producer who eventually becomes hip to the conspiracy. But the discovery doesn't take much genius. Because before long practically half of Harrisburg, Pa., is trying to extort Russ and Crystal. And there you have what attempts to pass for a plot.
It's Dumb and Dumber, only worse, with a pair of wanton murders thrown in just to prove how ineptly conceived a film can get.
In fact, only the pulchritudinous Miss Kudrow keeps the film from being a totally unqualified failure. As a déclassé femme fatale without the slightest hint of conscience, the comic actress is an entity unsullied by Ephron's cinematic morass. Hedging her bets by consorting with both weatherman Russ and his producer, the rapaciously venal Crystal is the film's only creative note. Too bad the rest of the production didn't take its cue from her zany performance. Then Lucky Numbers might have found the specific tone of black comedy it flailingly grasps for, instead of falling into the black hole of tedium that engulfs it.
Unfortunately, the lead role doesn't leave Mr. Travolta with much room to wriggle. Quite simply, it is fraught with inherent contradictions. Which is great if the writer has something brilliant to say about those ambiguities. Because within that gossamer kernel of uncertainty is where true art lies, or at least a whole bunch of it. But alas, dear reader, such is not the sublime case here.
Local celebrity Russ Richards, who has a table perennially reserved for him at the Harrisburg Denny's, isn't the same guy who's going broke because the warmest winter on record is bankrupting his snowmobile dealership. Nor is he the same fellow who happily gives out autographs whilst visiting a 3rd grade classroom, and then dashes off to his underworld friend's bar to trifle in treachery. And it's not because he's suffering from an acute case of multiple personality. That would at least be an interesting angle for an actor to pursue and for us to follow.
Rather, it's because these disparate traits are not successfully integrated into one human noggin. But, lest moviegoers fear that Travolta has lost his range, this note from his film critic will attest that the illness is solely his character's and not his. What screenwriter Resnick has inadvertently done is written three or four personalities for one persona without benefit of psychiatric diagnosis. Hence it only follows that Mr. Travolta's performance would seem out of sorts. And besides, anyone who saw Face/Off or Primary Colors will agree that the actor's thespic interpretations between the lines and in complex shades of grey are quite glibly competent.
Still, touting one performance and absolving another doesn't much change things for this filmic carnage. Truth be told, Lucky Numbers doesn't add up to very much no matter how you figure it.
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