The Prince 2014 Film

It’s often an arrogant and presumptuous critical tic to reflexively refer to turkeys starring major stars as “paycheck projects,” as though venality were the only possible reason a good actor might end up in a bad film. Yet it’s hard to think of a better explanation for the presence of John Cusack and Bruce Willis in Brian A. Miller’s “The Prince.” With the latter turning in one of his least committed onscreen performances, and the former appearing to be suffering from the worst migraine of his life every second he’s on camera, it’s up to star Jason Patric to somehow salvage this basic-cable-quality actioner, yet his options are limited. A brief theatrical run seems a mere formality for the Lionsgate release, with on-demand offering more promising returns.

Set very prominently in New Orleans, though shot in Mobile, Ala., “The Prince” seems to imagine itself a sort of Cajun-seasoned take on “Taken,” tossing in a dash of “Unforgiven” and a soupcon of David Mamet’s “Spartan” for extra flavor. The results, however, are far more “Grand Theft Auto: Ninth Ward,” with rote backstories, videogame-like shootouts and repetitive, uninteresting interrogations hustling the pic through its by-the-numbers paces.

Protagonist Paul (played by a competent if uncharismatic Patric), is a humble, ripped, widowed Mississippi auto mechanic with a shady past in the New Orleans criminal underworld. When his college-age daughter (Gia Mantegna) goes missing, he’s forced to sharpen up his dormant ass-kickery chops and revisit his old stomping grounds, shaking down a series of token hoods and reawakening some sleeping grudges from his bad old days in the Big Easy, most of which revolve around resident crime lord Omar (Willis, all but checking his watch). Violence quickly and inevitably ensues.

Along the way, he’s joined by his daughter’s snotty, coked-up friend Angela (Jessica Lowndes), who provides some moderately valuable intel at the start, and then inexplicably sticks around for the duration of the film to complain, scream and occasionally provide strange doses of sexual tension. Midway through, the pic introduces another ally in Paul’s old running buddy Sam (Cusack), who sighs and grimaces through his scenes as a luxury hotel-bound hustler.

No one seems to want to reinvent the wheel here, and an idle Netflix user could certainly do far worse when browsing for mindless actioners. But the overall air of shrugging obligation from those both in front of and behind the camera proves contagious. Rapper Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson and Jung Ji-hoon (better known as Korean pop superstar Rain) have minor, not entirely comfortable roles which seem to serve no purpose other than to broaden the pic’s potential appeal to younger auds and Asian demos, respectively. The action sequences are competently directed, but exhibit virtually no flair or invention, as Patric simply stands there shooting at waves of anonymous henchmen until they all fall down.

If nothing else, “The Prince” does seem to afford its array of weaponry greater than average care, and unlike most mid-grade shoot-‘em-ups, the film actually shows its central avenger frequently stopping to reload, and even making multiple trips to an ammo shop between gun battles. If only the rest of the film paid as much attention to detail.

Sin City: A Dame to Kill For

There's only so much pulp you can ingest before it starts to get stuck in your teeth, and that's the takeaway from Frank Miller's Sin City: A Dame to Kill For, Robert Rodriguez and graphic novelist Miller's sequel to their hit black-and-white-but-sorta-color CG noir from 2005. For all the watermelon-like smashing of noggins and copious nudity (with a particularly odd choice of rendering males genital-less), the overall effect is less titillating than numbing. That more or less puts Dame on par with its predecessor, even if the narrative focus is as blurry as the film's resolution when you remove your 3-D glasses. (The 3-D, by the way, is at least warranted and not half bad.) Revenge is the order of the day here, with a slick card shark (Joseph Gordon-Levitt, recalling his teen gumshoe in Brick) attempting to swindle ruthless politico Senator Roark (Powers Boothe), while the now-hardened, boozy exotic dancer Nancy (Jessica Alba), looks to settle the score that forced her beloved protector (Bruce Willis, cameoing as a ghost) to take his life in order to preserve hers.

Any movie whose cast includes two dozen famous actors has to coast on those thesps' abilities, and that proves to be the case here—though, disappointingly, Alba, Rosario Dawson, and the Mother Monster herself, Lady Gaga, share about 15 lines of dialogue. Mickey Rourke is back as biker brute Marv and Josh Brolin takes over for Clive Owen's tortured ladies' man Dwight. With their low-rumble vocal stylings, they were born for this type of flick. The filmmakers wisely hired the fearless, magnetic Eva Green to play—what else?—the delectably twisted femme fatale Ava, who offers up most of the aforementioned copious nudity. Reminiscent of Linda Fiorentino's classic turn in the seedy suspenser The Last Seduction, and far more resourceful than the movie she's in, Green's Ava more than lives up to this picture's subtitle.