“I seek righteousness.
But I'll take revenge.”
The above is stated by the widow Emma Cullen (Haley Bennett)
in response to a question posed by bounty hunter Sam Chisolm (Denzel
Washington). It is a declaration that acknowledges a desire for lofty
aspirations, but opts instead for the banal; a sentiment that permeates The Magnificent Seven, a remake of John
Sturges’ 1960 classic (itself a remake of Arika Kurosawa’s 1954 cinematic masterpiece,
Seven Samurai). It would do the film
a major disservice to compare it to its progenitors, for it falls woefully
short in comparison. However, it is serviceably entertaining, though
frustrating, film on its own merits.
Seven, directed by
Antoine Fugua (Training Day, The
Equalizer), screenplay by Richard Wenk and Nic Pizzolatto, follows the same skeletal template. Ruthless business man Bartholomew Bogue (Peter Sarsgaard) and his
private army murders citizens of the mining town of Rose Creek to convince the
survivors to sell their land to him for a fraction of its cost or face wholesale slaughter. Emma Cullen seeks out someone to help them before the deadline, and
finds bounty hunter Chisolm, who is reluctant to give aid until he is told of
Bogue’s involvement. Chisolm then recruits other gunslingers to aid him in the endeavor,
consisting of gambler Josh Faraday (Chris Pratt), the tag team of ex-Confederate
soldier and expert marksman Goodnight Robicheaux (Ethan Hawke) and knife expert
Billy Rocks (Byung-hun Lee), wanted fugitive Vasquez (Manuel Garcia-Fulfo),
ex-scalp hunter Jack Horne (Vincent D’Onofrio), and Comanche warrior Red Harvest
(Martin Sensmeier) to engage in what may be the town’s last stand.
Though the setting is set in the Old West, it’s a thoroughly
modern film in the sense that it’s infused with 21st century
sensibilities. Instead of a (mostly) Caucasian cast in the 1960 film, the main
cast is racially diverse, which lends the film with a more fantastical air than
it should possess and incongruous for the era it represents. Yes, there were
cowboys (and cowgirls) of all races and creeds. The point is that the racial
prejudices of the era go largely unaddressed; a laudable and a long time coming
sentiment for a story set in modern times, but inauthentic for its milieu and requiring a major
suspension of disbelief. Such could be overlooked if it weren’t for the fact
that there’s practically no conflict between the seven. Set ups for conflict
galore: scalp hunter and a Comanche powder keg here, a Mexican in-joke there. Instead,
hinted at possibilities and never developed. Drama is derived from conflict,
and the differences between the seven are muted so that the eventual camaraderie
between them is just an unearned, foregone conclusion; the characters are reduced
to paper cutouts with no real empathetic investment. This is no fault of the
actors though, as they all seem to be thoroughly enjoying playing cowboys. The surprising thing about their performances
are that, given that many of them have worked with the director, or each other
before (Fugua, Washington, Hawke, Training
Day; Fugua and Hawke, Brooklyn’s
Finest, Fugua, Washington, and Bennett, The
Equalizer, Pratt and D’Oronfino, Jurassic
World; etc.), their work as a whole feels cookie-cutter bland. But then,
despite the fact that this is an ensemble piece, the bulk of the work go to
Washington, Pratt, Bennett and Hawke. As such, it’s no surprise that the rest
get the short shrift in terms of satisfactory character development.
Unfortunately, it undermines any possible emotional payoff that could have been
derived from their interactions (though D’Orinfino’s Horne does come close to eliciting
some poignancy).
Another thing that works to the film’s disadvantage is its
penchant to eschew iconography for matter-of-fact realism. The cinematography
is only beautiful when it could have been majestically evocative. It acts as travelogue
for the YouTube generation. The film’s meat and potatoes are from the
narrative, as everything is shot in paired down fashion. Unfortunately, its
pacing is quixotically disjointed. The film plods where it should move briskly
and, even more egregious, rushes moments meant to be held. One of the basic hallmarks, and arguable necessity,
of any western is the building of suspense; of using stillness and anticipation
to ratchet tension in the viewer so that when the moment of action happens, the
audience is ensnared in the payoff viscerally. For the majority of the film,
this isn’t the case except for one instance near the climax. As such, the film’s
impact is limited; not gone, but limited.
The action sequences are extremely well executed and attention grabbing
and, again, the actor’s performances do draw one in, as does the
soundtrack. For his last, posthumously-released score, James Horner’s treatment (fleshed out, adapted, and completed
by his colleagues Simon Rhodes, orchestrator/conductor J.A.C. Redford, and
music editors Joe E. Rand and Jim Henrikson) serve as a stylistic “greatest
hits” for the late composer, with his acoustic trademarks evident throughout
the score, giving epic weight that the film would lacks without it. It services
the film by elevating it beyond its limitations; a fitting tribute to a sorely
missed cinematic composer.
In all, The
Magnificent Seven is merely mediocre. It is entertaining on the whole, but
it’s undermined by its own self-consciousness. By eschewing the tropes that
made the original a seminal classic in not just the Western genre but all of
film, it only calls attention to them. It is a vehicle that is bogged down and
neutered by its own political correctness. It’s not innovative. It’s a
by-the-numbers affair that offers little more than an enjoyable shoot-‘em-up.
Ironically, there is one shot involving Washington’s Chisolm that happens before the climax that hints at what could have been. Alone astride his steed, his back towards the camera, his form obscured in silhouette, looking off in the d by the rising sun anticipating the arrival of his foe…a vista of crimson turning blue…for just a brief moment, Fugua presents a scene that epitomizes the epic, and then it’s gone, and the mundane sets in. It reaches for greatness, but settles for mediocrity…and misses out on something truly magnificent.
Ironically, there is one shot involving Washington’s Chisolm that happens before the climax that hints at what could have been. Alone astride his steed, his back towards the camera, his form obscured in silhouette, looking off in the d by the rising sun anticipating the arrival of his foe…a vista of crimson turning blue…for just a brief moment, Fugua presents a scene that epitomizes the epic, and then it’s gone, and the mundane sets in. It reaches for greatness, but settles for mediocrity…and misses out on something truly magnificent.
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