About six months ago, my block in Astoria was papered with pink NO PARKING signs vowing to tow anything that disrupted the filming of a movie. Within the massive trailers, reclusive celebrities hid until it was time for their close-ups, and along the sidewalk, non-celebrities grazed on coffee and donuts, spoke into walkie talkies, and removed wandering residents from the sidewalk when someone farther down the street held up a hand. I never managed to catch a glimpse of anyone in the movie, and knew very little about the film aside from its title: Tower Heist.
There were thirty one movies filmed in New York City in 2010 and twenty-currently being filmed – neither of these totals includes the various television series and dramas also filmed. And, because there are so many, I hardly remember the titles I glimpse from the signs; however, it just so happens that the same block was shut down last weekend for touch-ups on the very same movie. Coincidentally, this happened the same week that I slogged through The Change-Up and caught a glimpse of Tower Heist during the coming attractions.
Admittedly, I was initially intrigued given the recentness with which I was reminded of the film, but the preview itself exemplifies the degeneration of a narrative arc from promising to ludicrously contrived. In another context, this preview would demonstrate the transition from sapiens to simians.
Should a film that stars Ben Stiller, Alan Alda, Eddie Murphy, Michael Pena, Tea Leoni, and Gabourey Sidibe be categorized as high art and set the bar above all other films in its genre? Certainly not. and I wouldn’t fault it for falling short. However, the preview starts out promisingly enough by playing on a contemporary scandal reminiscent of Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scam.
Here, Alan Alda plays Arthur Shaw, a multimillionaire with his “own private island,” but whose congenial demeanor is torn asunder amidst the revelation that he defrauded all of his investors, and those that we are privy to happen to work in the luxury building where Shaw lives. In this co-existence of blue collar workers and Shaw, a discourse on the class-gap is established, primarily between JoshKovacs (Ben Stiller) and Shaw, where Shaw insists that “deepdown, I’m just an old Astoria boy,” much like Kovacs who responds with “That’s right. PS 104. Go lions.” But this is rendered fallacious once Shaw’s crimes are uncovered and he reminds Kovacs that he and his fellow employees are just “working stiffs, clock punchers, easily replaced.”
Therefore, despite their childhood’s geographical proximity, they couldn’t be further apart. This topic is not one that is often tackled in comedy – dark or otherwise – so its introduction here suggested that various gaps between class, education, and maybe even race would be tackled.
Furthermore, the film aims at the proper demographic: the middle class workers, maybe those who were defrauded by Madoff, or, more broadly relevant, those who hold similar middle-class jobs, only knowing the wealthy from afar. The aim is taken further when the collective modus operandi of the scorned employees turns to revenge, but not in a Hard Candy sort of way. Here, Shaw won’t physically suffer, but his “twenty-million dollar safety net” will be found and distributed between this modern Robin Hood and his merry men.
But alas, there is one snag in their scheme: they’re “not criminals” and “don’t know how to steal.” But rest assured, Kovacs “knows someone”: Slide (Eddie Murphy). Cue the move from Homo Sapiens to Homo Erectus, our knuckles touching the ground, and our knowledge of the word ripe with confusion.
I have nothing against Eddie Murphy. In a way, I even admire his transition from wise-cracking Axl Foley to lead whip in deplorably written children’s films. Most of them evoke laughter through gross-out humor, are terrible, and treat kids like morons, but they are financially viable: “since 1995, “kids’ fiction” movies have been the highest average grossing of any genre, excepting the usually bigger-budget superhero films” (source). Who can fault him – or Adam Sandler for that matter?
The downside of the introduction of Slide is not just Murphy, who treats one of his first dialogs with Kovacs as if he were conjuring Donkey from Dreamwork’s animation heap. Using the same nasal, undulating inflection Murphy rattles in one extenuated breath, “You’re the little seizure boy whose been having seizures all the time, you’d be having seizures on a regular basis, you’re the little seizure boy, your eyes would be rolling back and a kids’d be crying, foam was coming out…it was very scary” that’s a nice boulder.
Instead, the downside is the progression of narrative. Here, we’re led to believe that Kovacs, who works in a building in which the average tenant earns “5.6 million dollars” and who has to refer all the way back to their time with “Ms. Satlzburg” at “daycare” to jog Slide’s memory, has kept close enough tabs on this random playmate-turned-criminal to be able to use him at the most convenient disposal. Granted, in the age of Facebook, Peoplefinder, Classmates, Google Plus, and other .coms, it is a touch easier to find those who cut themselves loose from the tether of social networks, but how probable is this? And, on the chance that this is a writer’s scheme to introduce a twist wherein Kovacs — or someone else — is revealed to be in league with Shaw, then, boo.
Perhaps I should just suspend my disbelief – more so that could be warranted – and just go with it. Fine. I’ll do that for a moment, but I can’t overlook the comedic tone of the film that moves from clever to idiotic.
One example derives from Rick Malloy’s (Michael Pena) purchasing of ski hats as opposed to ski masks because “the guy said these would keep us the warmest.” Seriously? There’s always a wealth of comic relief in misunderstanding, but this is a heist film that mirrors decades of heist films, so his obliviousness, much like the connection forged between Kovacs and Slide is precarious at best.
Likewise, moments within the trailer point to Odessa Montero (Gabourey Sidibe), the maid who’s “gone rogue” and has an obvious attraction to Slide, something most notably shown through innuendo as they hunch near a safe: “You gotta find the entry point. gotta use the fingers when you find the entry point. You married?” To which Slide reposts, “No, I ain’t marries whas up?”
There is nothing wrong with innuendo, crudeness, or transgression for that matter; however, the lines pave such a predictable course that they lose their humor. It’s forced, and it’s as if the film panders to an audience looking for the grotesque – in the most literal sense of the word: creating an unnatural or bizarre connection during a situation that calls for the opposite. Inherently, there’s nothing wrong with the grotesque or the absurd, but its deviation from the original tone transports this film to the age of Homo habilis.
In the end, a film that looks to be another rendition of Ocean’s Eleven confuses its audience with a cornucopia of clichés and snippets of various genres. Oh, and it’s directed by Brett Ratner: the turd placed atop asbestos whipped cream dolloped on a delicious looking sundae.
