Heavy Cloud, No Rain

The Rainmaker proves mostly superstition

I can't believe this movie comes from Francis Ford Coppola, who I remember best for The Godfather. It's a totally clichéd story of a handsome young Gallant who brings together a colorful set of friends, including a nice old rich lady, a poor battered wife, a feisty little DeVito-sidekick device, and special guest start Mickey Rourke as the walking LA sleeze-symbol he must really be, for all I know. Oh, what does Gallant do, you ask, in between yawns? He wins a lawsuit for some poor devil who suffers from a severe case of coughing and acting sick and/or retarded on screen. You know it was either gonna be that or a black man mistakenly thought of as an inhuman beast. Either way, this is a John Grisham, so you better believe a couple of squishy-faced southern power attorneys had their asses handed to them! Whew!

Sarcasm is all I can offer this lazy Sunday afternoon waste of time. I'm just astounded that it's the work of a veteran director. Worse still, The New York Times' Elvis Mitchell called it Coppola's "best and sharpest film in years." Does watching the film in 2010 reveal how fast the tropes of courtroom drama become stilted, predictable conventions? Even viewed as purely a genre picture, I find the script utterly ridiculous. Mickey Rourke's smarm-made-flesh doesn't get enough screen time or any remotely cool lines. The old lady has no color to her at all -- in one scene she has only one line asking Matt Damon if he wants his sandwich (no, he's in a hurry). No, I think convention's progress is only part of the story here; perhaps another factor is the rotten star system in Hollywood that still wants to believe in Coppola and cute blond guys with winning smiles.