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It would be all well and good if a distinct purpose for all this bleakness could be ascertained. That is, if there were some discernible wisdom hidden within this bitter pill. But as written by Jerzy and Mary Olson Kromolowski and interpreted by Mr. Penn, the redeeming story value is much too slight to justify the broad swaths of discomfort it perpetrates.
No doubt, the director has had the inspiring opportunity to work with a bunch of fine filmmakers. Because he seems hell-bent on incorporating their greatness into his own momentous moments, the imitative influence is apparent. Thus this dire tale about a serial killer specialising in little girls and the tormented retired cop (Jack Nicholson) who has pledged to catch him is loaded with recognisable nihilism and despondently familiar notes about the big bad world. The harshness is piled high and inorganic, as if the director found a bottle of "Essence of Severe and Grave Movie" and splashed it about like a teen-aged boy trying his first application of after-shave. And despair unaccompanied by philosophical genius and at least a slight glint of optimism is just sheer masochism to witness.
That noted, The Pledge does have its good points. Well, some at least. The camera work, while also a bit derivative, is for the most part stylish. The imagery is often strong. The hopeless sterility of winter in the Sierra Nevada makes for a daunting backdrop. And Mr. Penn exhibits a Felliniesque penchant for American fringe types and oddballs, all of whom might be the murderer. Or not. It's as if all of Norman Rockwell's small-town folk had suddenly gone bad. Although these trash culture weirdoes are imbued with an implied threat, they are occasionally diverting in a side-show sort of way. If they weren't, Ricki Lake and Sally Jessie Raphael wouldn't have TV shows.
But the film's most elaborate characterisation is the one fashioned by Mr. Nicholson. Playing his age, the famed thespian is gumshoe Jerry Black. You know the drill. Here he is, trying to close the book on a lifetime of illustrious accomplishment, and along comes the murder case of his career. Of course, Nicholson's troubled sleuth amounts to more than a detective tale cliché. There's a personal note here. Wrestling with his past, Jerry's need for vindication is his most telling trait.
Granted, Detective Black may be an altruist. And remember, he did make that promise to the little girl's mom. But to what end will he go to get his man, or woman for that matter? Unfortunately, the length and breadth of his obsession begins to challenge the murder plot for control of the movie. And the story grows an ungainly new branch. Mr. Nicholson nonetheless competently etches the heartfelt metaphor about a man's need to be useful and still deemed vital. Too bad a better-conceived film doesn't surround the performance.
Also putting in a good turn is Robin Wright Penn as Lori, a potential love interest who just happens to be the mother of a blonde little girl who fits the killer's preference list. An abused waitress, she is the prototypical heroine of every country western song ever written. Nevertheless, Ms. Wright Penn plays the rural heartbreak with refreshing confidence. Problem is, the relationship that ensues between Jerry and Lori implies much too outlandish a question about Jerry's crime-solving zeal. Draw your own conclusions.
The Pledge has plenty of tension. Oodles of it. But not the good kind. It doesn't seem to be the filmmaker's desire to have us successfully guess whodunit? There are no clues per se, just repetitive trips up numerous blind alleys with little satisfaction or conclusion. Like a bratty child, the movie has a secret, and it isn't telling. And since we don't get to see things through the fiend's eyes, this can be no psychological thriller either. Instead, a planned paranoia grips the atmosphere. It could be anyone. Maybe even the person you came to the theatre with.
In short, the tacit message being sent is that we are doomed. That we are defenceless in the face of evil forces. Somehow, it seems much more eloquent, if still not palatable, when Dostoevsky, or even Ingmar Bergman, tells us that bad news. From Sean Penn it just feels depressing. And that's reason enough not to vouch positive for The Pledge.
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