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Edge of Darkness
herine Bray
The poster for Edge Of Darkness so desperately attempts to evoke the poster for Scarface they might as well have photoshopped Al Pacino onto Mel Gibson's head. It's an odd choice, because Edge Of Darkness has nothing to do with gangsters or coke-fuelled ego-killings. Edge Of Darkness is where The Constant Gardener meets The Fugitive for a stern-faced discussion about corporate conspiracies before figuring, sod it, let's just have Mel Gibson hare around demonstrating the accepted mourning procedure for bereaved fathers in movies by beating up some wrong 'uns. Tears? They're for women and sissy peaceniks.
Based on a popular British TV series that nobody under the age of 30 has heard of, original series director Martin Campbell (aka the man who saved James Bond, twice), returns to direct the movie version, now relocated to Boston. The bare bones of the story - daughter dead, dad mad - remain unchanged, but this is an unmistakably slick Hollywood product. It's true, everything is bigger in the US: the stars, the guns, the gleaming industrial headquarters that house your obviously greasy villains (Danny Huston plus henchmen).
Unfortunately, the bigger Campbell stretches his canvas, the more it sags. Edge Of Darkness, by rights, ought to be suspenseful. The ingredients are nominally there: there's a mystery, an agitated score, sudden jumpy happenings - and yet it's tension by numbers, mass produced as a vehicle for its fifty-something lead to recapture his movie hero status. If Bruce Willis can star in Die Hard 4.0, Gibson seems to be thinking, why shouldn't old Mel grab a piece of the aging action star pie?
It's not a chore to watch him try to do so, as Gibson still has considerable screen presence, but it's Clint Eastwood whose book he should take a leaf out of. The former Dirty Harry has evolved into one of the industry's most respected directors, a feat Gibson clearly has a plausible chance of emulating given his often distasteful but always engaging efforts behind the camera so far. He can afford to leave onscreen goon-thrashing antics to younger, hungrier men.
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