Running time: 128 minutes
Starring: Clint Eastwood, James Woods, Isaiah Washington, Denis Leary
Rating 6 out of 10
Like your dad doing the Funky Gibbon at your birthday party, or when Blind Date see fit to wheel in a bunch of wrinklies for a shudderingly cringe-worthy session of OAP innuendo, some people just refuse to grow old gracefully. And then, happily, there's the flip-side. There exist those few for whom age instils a certain, full-bodied vintage. And with a 90s output including dark Western Unforgiven, head-to-head suspenser In The Line Of Fire and entertaining thriller Absolute Power, Clinton Eastwood Jr definitely qualifies for this category.
Returning to his native Oakland district of San Francisco, Eastwood's latest undertaking as director, producer and star finds him inhabiting the washed-out, morally-suspect existence of alcoholic, womanising reporter Steve Everett. Everett is scum. With a disaster area for a personal life, he's been booted off of the prestigious New York Times, and has relocated to America's West Coast with long-suffering wife Barbara (Diane Venora) and their daughter.
This hasn't seemed to prevent him from fooling around with editor Bob Findley's (Denis Leary) wife, and although tough-talking editor-in-chief Alan Mann (James Woods) has every reason to fire him, he's vesting faith (albeit rapidly diminishing) in Everett's qualities as a reporter. For if nothing else - and provided he's not awash with party juice - Steve Everett has an unerring nose for the truth. And in the case of convicted killer Frank Beachum (Isaiah Washington), whose last hours are ticking away on San Quentin prison's DeathRow, something just doesn't smell right.
Drafted as stand-in to conduct one final interview the afternoon before the lethal injection, Everett's brief examination of the events leave him with a sudden instinct that Beachum is innocent. Time to uncover crucial proof, however, is not on his side. Unfortunately, Eastwood's 21st film as director ends poorly, due to this hackneyed, race-against-time finale, which clatters through as many cliches as boxes of garbage along San Francisco back alleys, and confounds what has been a layered, involving build-up. Indeed, this build-up is where the marks are scored - another rich example of Clint's leisurely, character-driven style that's so good to watch, especially with support players like Woods, Venora, Leary and Washington.
Okay, so Woods basically does a ranting caricature and Eastwood's gnashers may just be getting a little too lengthy for him to convincingly cop off without provoking some doubt from the audience, but he gives everyone time and room to manoeuvre, and quality performers rarely disappoint under such circumstances.
What rides inescapably against this picture is the misjudged ending though, which contrives to undo all of the laudable, fascinating groundwork put in. And as it's this that you'll leave the cinema with, True Crime sadly ranks as one of Clint's weakest products since action-catastrophe The Rookie.
Returning to his native Oakland district of San Francisco, Eastwood's latest undertaking as director, producer and star finds him inhabiting the washed-out, morally-suspect existence of alcoholic, womanising reporter Steve Everett. Everett is scum. With a disaster area for a personal life, he's been booted off of the prestigious New York Times, and has relocated to America's West Coast with long-suffering wife Barbara (Diane Venora) and their daughter.
This hasn't seemed to prevent him from fooling around with editor Bob Findley's (Denis Leary) wife, and although tough-talking editor-in-chief Alan Mann (James Woods) has every reason to fire him, he's vesting faith (albeit rapidly diminishing) in Everett's qualities as a reporter. For if nothing else - and provided he's not awash with party juice - Steve Everett has an unerring nose for the truth. And in the case of convicted killer Frank Beachum (Isaiah Washington), whose last hours are ticking away on San Quentin prison's DeathRow, something just doesn't smell right.
Drafted as stand-in to conduct one final interview the afternoon before the lethal injection, Everett's brief examination of the events leave him with a sudden instinct that Beachum is innocent. Time to uncover crucial proof, however, is not on his side. Unfortunately, Eastwood's 21st film as director ends poorly, due to this hackneyed, race-against-time finale, which clatters through as many cliches as boxes of garbage along San Francisco back alleys, and confounds what has been a layered, involving build-up. Indeed, this build-up is where the marks are scored - another rich example of Clint's leisurely, character-driven style that's so good to watch, especially with support players like Woods, Venora, Leary and Washington.
Okay, so Woods basically does a ranting caricature and Eastwood's gnashers may just be getting a little too lengthy for him to convincingly cop off without provoking some doubt from the audience, but he gives everyone time and room to manoeuvre, and quality performers rarely disappoint under such circumstances.
What rides inescapably against this picture is the misjudged ending though, which contrives to undo all of the laudable, fascinating groundwork put in. And as it's this that you'll leave the cinema with, True Crime sadly ranks as one of Clint's weakest products since action-catastrophe The Rookie.
