According to web reports, this Hugh Jackman/Ewan McGregor thriller was originally
titled The Tourist and The List before the filmmakers and/or studio finally settled on Dece
ption. The alternates are not exactly the most eye-catching or original titles, but both
would be just as appropriate for this particular film. I can't imagine what the impetus
was to find something even more generic -- or if it's even possible to come up with a
more bland thriller title. Betrayal, perhaps? Dark Secrets?
This is a film that starts off with some agreeable, professional trashiness before
settling into routine. This is not to say that the opening, with meek, lonely accountant
Jonathan (McGregor) striking up a friendship with the slick Wyatt (Jackman), is ent
irely smooth going. Almost immediately, the movie suffers from casting the sly, handsome
McGregor as a fumbling nebbish. The guy has both acting chops and charisma; naturally,
several of his Hollywood roles ask him to trade both for an American accent. Hopef
ully he meets up with Colin Farrell and James McAvoy to commiserate -- or maybe he
swapped stories on-set with Jackman, another good-looking overseas bloke who has
alternated terrific performances with bouts of blandness.
Here, Jackman at least gets to have a little fun as a smooth operator. Wyatt introduces
Jonathan to an elite cross between a party line and a phone tree: men and women,
mostly of the wealthy and powerful variety, can call on each other for anonymous
sexual encounters. Jonathan is drawn into this relationship-free world, while the film
sort of flirts with the idea of joining him. Natasha Henstridge, Charlotte Rampling,
and Maggie Q all pop by to help with the illusion of sex, trading on their various
cine-sexual histories (from Henstridge's deadly, oft-naked alien in the Species films
to Rampling's near-constant charge). There are flashes of nudity and the like, but
all of the actresses have fleeting, almost cameo-length roles -- heating lamps flicked
off before they can warm up.
The real woman of interest is supposed to be Michelle Williams, as a mysterious femme
who has -- against sex-club protocol -- an actual conversation with Jonathan, setting
in motion the film's supposed thrills. Williams, a surprisingly resourceful actress who
here has the benefit of being lighted like some kind of golden angel, does work up
a nice rapport with McGregor, even with exchanges like "you should go"/"you should
stay" clanging in our ears.
Before anything interesting can come of this relationship, though, the film's women
recede and Deception turns out to be one of those movies that finds illicit sex clubs
altogether less interesting than the business of wire transfers, embezzling, and
co-signatories on dummy bank accounts. Of course, such things can be terrifically
exciting -- heist movies, for example, can thrive on the meticulous and/or ridiculous
details of moving some money around. But the rather less detailed Deception wants
us to get all hot and bothered watching a status bar on an electronic funds transfer,
the kind of nail-biting suspense that only a studio executive could love. Maybe if
they make enough movies about it, power and money will actually become the world's only
aphrodisiacs.
This is an especially good-looking crap thriller; cinematographer Dante Spinotti
shot Heat and The Insider for Michael Mann, and his cold, clean capturing of New York offices
and shadows brings to mind the Los Angeles cityscapes of Mann's films. But that only
makes the screenplay less congruous. It's as if the real script -- one worthy of
these actors and production values -- was misplaced, so the producers found a last-minute
substitute that had been locked in a desk drawer since the heyday of Michael Douglas,
and everyone just put their heads down and forged ahead. Now that this release is
past, that's probably what they should do now, too.
Why do you have to bring up Dawson's Creek every night?
See Also
