Keanu Reeves finds his acting niche: Limbo.
Woe unto John Constantine. Born with the ability to perceive both the diabolic and beatific creatures that walk among us and the attendant inability to keep his mouth shut, he was thought mad and sent to an asylum. That was 15 years ago. Now, as played by Keanu Reeves, the Los Angeles-based Constantine
***image1***
polices the borders between heaven and hell, deporting wayward demons from the earthly plane in the fragile hope that he might buy his way into God's good graces. Whoa, indeed.
Adapted from Alan Moore's groundbreaking DC/Vertigo comic title,
Constantine
is sure to divide the series' most rabid fans, but those who can set aside their preconceptions will discover one of the more artfully designed comic-based films in some time. Moore, famously, had his name pulled from the finished product in protest over what he viewed as unpardonable sins against his storyline, but for all its divergences from Moore's sacrosanct text,
Constantine
the movie is remarkably faithful to the book's grim tone. This is not the Marvel Universe, where Spider-Man triumphs and things are Fantastic. Constantine may hobnob with the angel Gabriel (Tilda Swinton, in a breathtakingly outré performance) and consort with the damned, but he's also a cynical and hard-drinking nicotine fiend who's just learned he has terminal lung cancer.
Sulfur's in the air, though, and as more and more Hell-spawn begin to make incursions onto the Earthly plane, Constantine hooks up with a similarly gifted LAPD detective (Rachel Weisz)
***image2***
whose recently deceased sister may hold the key to an impending Luciferian blitzkrieg. It's not necessary to have read the books to appreciate the film's sumptuous visuals and art direction which range from a genuinely awe-inspiring vision of hell to a "neutral" heaven 'n' hell dive bar overseen by Djimon Hounsou's voudoun Midnite. As always, the devil's in the details and
Constantine
is loaded to the tip of its pointy tail with splendid little flourishes and a sense of pacing that lets the surreal events mount slowly and with ever-increasing gravitas.
The big question, of course, is Reeves himself. With his black trenchcoat and jaded, doom-centric mien, he pulls it off, capturing, however improbably, the sheer, soulless exhaustion of a man who has nothing left to lose and everything to gain. Of course, he's no longer playing in punk rock band Mucous Membrane, as Alan Moore would have it, but all in all it's a fair trade-off. This Constantine has far more important things to do.
