Carl Franklin's High Crimes is another film whose timing is way off. It's been caught in the post-9.11 mood of national togetherness and Hollywood's vow of patriotism (so long as it's profitable) dedicated to showing military America to be unarguably cheerworthy. This ridiculous courtroom melodrama only shows that the uniformed ranks of the Marines are stuffed with murderers who operate freely in a culture of official denial.
Ashley Judd is a successful San Francisco lawyer with such an ordered life - she studies her ovulation and times her conception to the split-second with her handsome husband (Jim Caviezel) - that fate can only be setting her up for a big slapdown. It comes; hubby is accused of killing villagers 15 years ago while a serving Marine in El Salvador.
The film might have made an honest attempt at juridical drama by focusing on the civilian lawyer-wife standing by her man, but having to cope with the unfamiliar jargon and procedures of a court martial, never mind a judge who smells of napalm.
It makes only a token attempt at this, preferring to resurrect that cliche figure of all secondrate legal procedurals - the lawyer who's a) drunk, b) down at heel and c) woefully short on self-respect, but who "takes the case" and redeems himself by a masterly effort of sobriety and cynicism. None other than Morgan Freeman, your Honour - alas!
Grizzled and grouchy, he can play this part on autopilot, but shouldn't have to suffer the indignity. He sheepdogs the woolly-minded Judd through the trials, while the baddies do their best to discourage the defence by bungled assassination attempts on Judd's life.
Thus to a miscarriage of justice is added a miscarriage of birth: the movie's manipulation is as shameless as it is crass.
The "surprise" twist at the end will only surprise folk who don't anticipate the climax following the anti-climax. In this sort of fright-by-numbers cinema, it always does.
High Crimes
Cert: cert12A
