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04/14/03

1 hr. 35 mins.
Starring: Chris Rock, Bernie Mac, Tamala Jones, Lynn Whitfield, Dylan Baker, Nick Searcy, James Rebhorn, Robin Givens
Directed by: Chris Rock

Rating: ** stars (out of 4 stars)

The pairing of keen-minded social commentator and acerbic-tongued stand-up comedian Chris Rock taking on the absurdity of American politics should have been a dream premise that instinctively settled together much like the tasty collaboration of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But in the surprisingly lackluster and toothless political satire Head of State, the contrary is quite evident. Rock, one of this generation’s smartest and sharpest comics when it comes to questioning the so-called fiber of American priorities and sensibilities with race relations as the occasional landscape of lampooning, is reduced to treading lukewarm waters in a disjointed slaphappy hip comedy that can easily be dismissed for politicizing pap.

Head of State never bravely reaches for the robust cynicism or takes the extended opportunity to stroke its antagonistic feathers by thumbing its nose at what it’s trying to slickly comment on-everything from the on-going inherent fear of African-Americans controlling the future interests of “White America” to the inane concept of the inner workings of some imperfect politicos and the system they choose to morally manipulate in a state of corruptive and selfish oblivion. Instead Rock, who incidentally directed, co-wrote and co-produced this lightweight flippant farce, dabbles in some unimaginative safe and familiar routines to inexplicably energize this pointless and pseudo-callous campaign. When the film heavily depends on the predictable racial sight gag of having a bunch of “starchy and stuck up old white folks” awkwardly dancing and singing to southern rapper Nelly’s infectious tune “Hot In Herre” or insists on having them recite mean streetwise lingo for some culturally cockeyed effect (which was already done previously ad nauseam in the current box office smash Bringing Down the House), there’s a short-term taste of ridiculousness that somewhat induces a chuckle or two but then again you’re forced to question the canned comical carnage that filmmaker Rock arbitrarily drudges up out of sheer clichéd laziness.

What feels so amazingly bewildering is how a clever cut up such as Rock manages to get stuck with mediocre material and in doing so insisting on spicing up this stale goofball comedy with smirking and sketchy bland ideas concerning a flip-lipped D.C.-based alderman named Mays Gilliam (played by Rock) trying to becoming the first black American president to reach the White House courtesy of his pugnacious populist stance.

So what do you do when your political party’s front-runner is killed in an untimely plane crash therefore ruining the once-promising chances of capturing the West Wing? Well, apparently desperate times calls for desperate measures so out of boredom and utter gimmickry you cut your losses and run an unlikely black candidate to at least appease the minority voters if anything else. A couple of calculating mover-and-shaker types (James Rebhorn and Dylan Baker) have this very same mindset hence drafting the opinionated Gilliam as their selected ebony poster boy to fill this empty role as the assigned presidential hopeful. Unbeknownst to the party head honchos, the garrulous Gilliam becomes a national sensation with his obvious fish-out-of-the-water persona as an upstart guppy taking on the Moby Dick phenomenon of the backstabbing political scene. But is the honest and well-intentioned Mays Gilliam really shrewd enough to be considered more than just pretentious presidential bait in someone’s man-made political pond?

As the raucous ride to the White House continues, Gilliam finds himself in an unsuspecting groove as the presidential race tightens up. In a move that would make the Camelot-era Kennedys proud, Gilliam decides to choose his glib bail-bondsman big brother Mitch (Bernie Mac from his self-titled Fox-TV sitcom) as his running mate and partner-in-crime. While contending with the mud-slinging arena of a heated election, Gilliam must face other obstacles that are personally distracting and threaten to throw him off track. When he’s not sparring with his moody fist-flinging sibling who’s sharing the same ticket while bringing unwanted controversy to their attention, Gillian is saddled with the responsibility of maintaining the romantic spark of his current gorgeous-looking love (Tamala Jones) while trying to shake off the constant intrusion from his deranged ex-fiancee (Robin Givens) who suffers from a severe case of Squeaky Fromme stalking disease. And if that’s not enough to worry about, Gilliam has to challenge the pompous flag-waving incumbent vice president of the United States that boasts the credentials of two important factors: being a former patriotic war hero and having showbiz blood ties to actress Sharon Stone. Ah, okay…

Head of State never arises above its hodge-podge leanings and has about as much scathing potency as the local novice high school debating team utilizing mild cuss words in their argumentative session. Rock has never been able to successfully transfer his high-voltage humor to the big screen in past outings because of other moviemakers’ inability or ineptness to let the fierce funnyman roll with the rabble-rousing punches. Now that there’s nobody in the fold to hold back Rock’s free-wheeling creative synergy, there shouldn’t be any excuses as to why the courageous stand-up and crafty social observer wasn’t able to lend some original and refreshingly stunning satirical jabs to this pared-down paralyzing project. Sure, Rock diligently takes innocent pokes at easy targets by mocking the usual suspects of clueless and privileged white culture, prototypical urban black ribaldry, the omnipresence of an intrusive media and the insincere scope of politics and the pundits that blindly oblige this watered-down vicious circle. It’s one thing to bash the basic subject matters just waiting to be demolished, especially if it’s convenient to lambaste in the dependable form of the political spectrum and the conflicted people it caters to regularly. But to not approach the tongue-lashing tendencies of this slight romp in convincing and distinctive blunt fashion when you have the cunning capabilities to do so that is being spearheaded by the incomparable performer Rock? Let’s face it, that’s just plain inexcusable.

When the film isn’t trying to stretch a miscellaneous caustic laugh out of outdated bits such as child-rearing indifference (“knock your children out, it’s good for them”), the tepid slapstick dictates more of the same misguided mockery that sometimes strays away from the relevance of the movie as a whole. Plus, can someone shed some light as to what’s so amusing about blowing to smithereens highly regarded American venues? And why does the film relish the thought of not sinking its teeth into the vaguely identified platform that the Gilliam brothers are supposed to represent? Without saying, Rock is incredibly insightful and vocal when it comes to his live club shows and television appearances when taking liberties to playfully attack the feeble condition that is the sometime laughable institution of American politics. Yet his limited comedy routines on the stage have more passion and panache than what he delivers in this colorless 90-minute comedy.

Head of State suspiciously has the waning feel of another political put-upon picture in the waking spirit of parlaying itself as an updated anemic version of Bulworth. Warren Beaty’s political puppy wasn’t exactly anything memorable in terms of its predictable potshots but it should be given some credit for trying to push hot buttons and assume an uneven volatile dialogue despite its flawed presentation. That is certainly more than what you can say about Head of State that doesn’t even bother to inspire the potentially juicy lunacy it ignores at the cautionary innocuous restraint of its confining star Rock.

The performances in Head of State, sad to say, aren’t as stimulating as one would expect, particularly when you have shocking clairvoyant clowns Rock and Bernie Mac heading up the festivities. When Mac is singularly focused upon the screen, the guy is completely riotous and moody in the limited time he’s given to spin his scenes in lively mode. His presence is overpowering and the deadpan delivery is priceless schtick to behold. When a Larry King-type interviewer poses a question about Mac’s vice presidential alter ego Mitch’s position on NATO, the clearly uninformed menacing cad quips, “I don’t know NATO-I don’t believe in talking about people behind their backs!” Even when Mac’s Mitch exhausts the tired motif of randomly assaulting folks because of his no nonsense disposition, you still have the tendency to crack up nevertheless. Bottom line: more of Mac’s participation in this showing would have guaranteed more assured frolic. When Rock and Mac face off and exchange a few barbs here and there, you’d expect more rustic ribbing from the tightly wound-up tandem. If anything, their scenes together are rather redundant and uneventful and could use more knee-slapping fireworks to step up the frothy encounters more effectively.

As for the supporting cast, they seem to be sprinkled about in a scattershot story that weaves in and out of its policy-driven plotline (by the way, the film barely concentrates on any discussion involving campaign issues and promises-something you would automatically expect from a cheeky satire devoted to skewering the political climate). Lynn Whitfield and Dylan Baker pop up as the Gilliam brothers’ advisors but contribute nothing special to the mayhem. And the film finds the annoying antics of Robin Givens’ scorned galpal persistently showing up in some hyper-hysterical manner as some recurring major hoot in the twisted effort for her to invade the precious space of former main squeeze Mays Gilliam now that he’s about to embark on moving to greener prosperous pastures. What’s so funny about this notion of obsessive behavior? Is that to hint at the excitable nature of defensive psychopathic black women that become ballistic when things don’t turn out their way? This is almost as cute as the “hand-to-the-face” ghetto gesture that “sistas” supposedly incorporate with decorative defiance. And Nick Searcy as the self-serving politician trying to keep his executive powers in tact over a surging and lucky boisterous black opponent is simply a run-of-the-mill caricature we’ve seen a thousand times before.

If Rock and his cohorts cannot concoct a uniquely decent and durable spoof without pushing the typical overused conventions of a ubiquitous hip-hop flavored flick as an exclusive sign of black angst and nonconformity, then Head of State deserves to abstain from getting its vote of confidence. In the long run, what will count are the box office standings--the definitive form of a cinematic electoral college that will enable this woefully sassy sideshow to strut its stuff right down the profitable rocky campaign trail.