Martin Scorsese comes home to the mean streets of New York with Bringing Out the Dead, the hyperkinetic tale of an ambulance driver (Nicolas Cage) on three sleep-deprived, adrenaline-fueled nights amongst the dead and dying of the city. Less a coherent narrative than a mood piece, the film is a welcome return to form for Scorsese, who takes Joe Connelly’s memoir and spins it into a slightly surreal, darkly comic tale of one man’s redemption. Frank Pierce (Cage) is a man who feels impotent in his job as an EMT–less a lifesaver, he’s more of a grief mop as he sardonically puts it, bearing witness to the pain and suffering of others. Haunted by the specter of a young homeless girl, something stirs in Frank when he meets Mary (Patricia Arquette), the daughter of a heart attack victim Frank attends to. In a world where human interaction usually means putting someone on a stretcher, or bantering frenetically with his coworkers, Frank seems headed for certain physical and nervous collapse.
Scorsese, screenwriter Paul Schrader (of Taxi Driver and Raging Bull), and cinematographer Robert Richardson put a vivid spin on the New York of the early 90s with amazing visual flair and keen, economical storytelling. The film practically pulses with life, and hits the perfect note of ragged exhaustion. Cage, after a recent career slump, turns in an exceptional performance, by turns manic and weary. In fact, this is one of the best casts ever assembled for a Scorsese film: in addition to the quietly effective Arquette, there are great performances by John Goodman, Ving Rhames, and Tom Sizemore as Cage’s ambulance partners, as well as Mary Beth Hurt (as an ER doctor), pop star Marc Anthony (as a drug addict), and especially Cliff Curtis (as a drug dealer who winds up in an unusual scrape). It’s not a masterpiece in the vein of Taxi Driver, but Bringing Out the Dead ranks as a stunning Scorsese joyride. –Mark Englehart
This thoroughly unpleasant thriller from the hands of Joel Schumacher (Batman and Robin) offers very little in its lurid tour of snuff films and the seedy pornographic underworld. A wooden Nicolas Cage stars as a private detective hired by a tycoon’s widow, who discovers in her dead husband’s safe some 8mm footage of a young girl being sexually abused and slaughtered. Cage’s job is to determine the veracity of the film and to find out the girl’s identity, whether she be alive or dead. What could have been a taut, nerve-jangling thriller is instead a lumbering, overwrought but underwritten tale of vigilante justice. Screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker also penned the imaginative and compelling Seven, but you wouldn’t know it from this tired and monotonous script. Schumacher tries for echoes of both The Silence of the Lambs and Paul Schrader’s Hardcore (which stars George C. Scott as a father trying to find his daughter in the seedy porn industry), but despite some slick camerawork, the film fails to draw the audience into either the mystery of the missing girl or Cage’s supposed internal conflicts. It’s not so much the unsavory subject matter as it is the sloppy and unimaginative filmmaking that makes the movie unbearable. Of the entire cast only Joaquin Phoenix, as a charismatic goth boy who works at an adult book store, comes away with a memorable performance. –Mark Englehart