Cash Out, Starring John Travolta

It is always super-awkward running into an ex, but especially so during a hostage crisis. Mason Goddard could simply release Amelia Decker if she were one of the hostages, but since she is the FBI negotiator, he is stuck with her. She almost busted him once, but she is the least of his problems in [just plain] Ives’s Cash Out, which releases tomorrow in theaters and on-demand.

Goddard really digs Decker until she foils his plan to steal a collection of rare sports cars. He escapes justice, but lands in a deep depression. As a result, he is not paying sufficient attention to the hair-brained caper his idiot little brother Shawn cooks up for the gang until it is too late. He tries to abort, but things just spin out of control too quickly.

Supposedly, they are looking for a crypto-wallet in a certain safety-deposit box, but it soon becomes clear they were set up. There is still a fateful box, but it is very different from what they were led to believe. The owner also happens to be the kind of shady billionaire smart crooks avoid crossing. However, the payoff could be huge.

The bank job-hostage crisis business in Cash Out is surprisingly well done. This is definitely another VOD thriller for John Travolta, but it could have been one of his better ones. Frustratingly, the film loses massive credibility points when the CIA and Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) take control of the response away from Decker, at the billionaire’s behest. Repeat after me: the CIA has no domestic operating authority, so if they took over an FBI operation, the Attorney General would be in the Oval Office raising H-E-double hockey sticks. This is what happens when public schools stop teaching civics.

Nevertheless, Travolta looks like he is having a good deal of fun playing Goddard. He also has decent chemistry with Kristin Davis, as the reasonably competent and intuitive Special Agent Decker. Frankly, it is rather nice to see a mainstream commercial film featuring a romantic couple who are both over fifty.

Short Film Shortlist: The Shepherd

Ever since The Christmas Box released in the mid-1990’s, publishers have been chasing its success with gift-sized Christmas novellas. Yet, thriller writer Frederick Forsyth had the idea twenty years earlier. For years, his story of a fateful Christmas Eve flight has been a radio tradition. Now, Iain Softley’s dramatic adaption of The Shepherd is on the Academy Award shortlist for live-action short.

The United Kingdom is at-peace in the 1950’s, but the ghosts of WWII remain. Freddie Hook has followed in the footsteps of his father, an RAF Airman fatally shot down by the Germans. He was not expecting this solo flight, but he volunteered to take the injured pilot’s place at the last moment. His take-off will be the tower’s last business before closing for the holiday, which will be unfortunate, since all his instruments, gages, and communications cut-out once he reaches cruising altitude.

Hook (unnamed in the original novella) is literally flying blind, when he is suddenly shrouded in freak cloud cover. He falls back on his training, but he will need a miracle, like a so-called “shepherd” pilot to help guide him in. There might just be one, but why would Johnny Cavanaugh be in the skies in a WWII-era Mosquito on a Christmas Eve night?

Although it is under forty minutes, The Shepherd is the best film Disney released in all of 2023. It is based on a Novella, but it probably requires studio resources to properly produce a period aviation drama. A name like Alfonso Cuaron on-board as producer probably helps too.

The flight sequences look great and 1950s costumes and trappings all look authentic. Softley dexterously hits the right nostalgic and uplifting notes. It is sentimental, but not schmaltzy. Tonally, it is a lot like the feel-good episodes of The Twilight Zone, such as “The Changing of the Guard.” In fact, that episode would pair up nicely with The Shepherd.

The Fanatic: Travolta is the Moose

Typically, horror movies reflect the fears of society, but occasionally they express the peculiar anxieties of the people who make movies. Seriously, who else would be worried about obsessive fans whose fandom crosses over to the dark side of stalkerdom? It happened to Lauren Bacall in The Fan (1981), Morgan Fairchild in The Seduction, Wesley Snipes in The Fan (1996) and now it happens to the ridiculously bland object of John Travolta’s adulation in Limp Bizkit front man Fred Durst’s The Fanatic, which opens this Friday in New York.

Moose means well and he fans hard, but he is definitely on the spectrum, so he is often misunderstood. For reasons we cannot fathom, he is a big fan of Hunter Dunbar, who made his name as the star of action-driven horror movies. Unfortunately, Dumb-bar bolts from a signing event to deal with some personal issues just as Moose was about to have his turn. Of course, the socially clumsy Moose follows Dunbar out into the street, where he makes a terrible impression. Wanting to try again, the poor fan turns up at Dunbar’s home, thanks to some of the tricks of the trade he learned from Leah, a paparazzi friend. Dunbar reacts even worse than we might expect—and so the cycle of misunderstanding keeps repeating, making conflict inevitable.

In all honesty, The Fanatic is pretty mediocre in nearly every way, but Travolta really goes all in as the Moose. He even has a meltdown worthy of Nic Cage—and we mean that as a compliment. It is frankly a pretty brave performance for someone like Travolta, who is probably more used to identifying with Dunbar’s position. Regardless, he makes Moose acutely human and ultimately quite tragic.

On the other hand, it is impossible to understand why anyone would be a fan of the charisma-less Dunbar or Devon Sawa, who plays him almost entirely without any redeeming attributes. As a result, the weird upshot of The Fanatic is that it makes us sympathize with stalkers. In fact, Leah the paparazzi (nicely portrayed by Ana Golja) is probably the film’s most intriguing character, even though it leaves us wondering how she ever connected with Moose in the first place.

Durst and co-screenwriter Dave Bekerman rely on a lot of stupid decision-making to advance the plot, which is definitely problematic. However, cinematographer Conrad W. Hall gives it an impressively stylish Hollywood Boulevard-by-night look and vibe. It is nice to know Travolta can still crank it up when he wants to, but his efforts mostly go for naught here. Not recommended, The Fanatic opens this Friday (8/30) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Speed Kills (And So Does the Mob)

Don’t let the “off” fool you. Ben Aronoff is transparently modeled on speed boat designer and manufacturer Donald Aronow. In fact, this film is explicitly based on Arthur Jay Harris’s non-fiction account of Aronow’s rise, fall, and murder, so why bother with such a minor name change? Aronoff/now sold boats to the US Customs Service and plenty of drug runners, but his old associate Meyer Lansky insisted he chose a side: his. At least that is the version of events presented in Jodi Scurfield’s Speed Kills (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Think of this as Casino in the ocean. ‘Noff/Now was a contractor in Jersey who made a fortune building projects “referred” his way by Lansky’s outfit, but things got too hot in 1959, so he skedaddled down to Miami with his family. Initially, he wanted to keep his old mob associates at arm’s length. Right, good luck with that. Soon after arriving, he got an eyeful of boat-racing and was immediately hooked. Soon, he was designing and marketing his own line of cigarette boats. He made a splash by racing his designs to victory in a number of high-profile races, but fielding and supporting a full-time racing team would greatly sap the company’s resources. Hmm, what other markets for power boats could you tap into in the Miami area?

In a way, Noff/Now is also presented as the DeLorean of boats, but screenwriters David Aaron Cohen & John Luessenhop suggest he really wanted to divorce himself from the mob. However, he is still a complete jerk, who cheats on first wife, played by Jennifer Esposito, and steals away his super-model second wife from King Hussein of Jordan (seriously, he does). In between getting whacked in medea res and his tom-catting, Noff/Now participates in a number of predictable races and several staring contests with Lansky’s thuggish, drug-running nephew, Robbie Reemer. Plus, he sells a few boats to Vice Pres. George H.W. Bush and future Treasury Sec. Nicholas Brady.

As Noffsky, John Travolta never ages a day over the film’s nearly thirty-year span, probably because he already looks far too old and creaky to be playing the boat kingpin in his early 1960s racing prime. However, James Remar nearly saves the day as the hardboiled, bourbon-hardened Lansky. Matthew Modine is also surprisingly on-target with his more-or-less respectful cameo as Bush Senior. Tom Sizemore adds some random edginess as the hitman seen in the wrap-around segments. Unfortunately, Katheryn Winnick and Esposito are grossly under-employed as Noffy’s wives, but it is downright embarrassing to watch Kellan Lutz as Reemer, probably the dullest, dreariest, most unsightly mulleted villain to ever barge across a movie screen.

Miami Vice probably would not have been the same without Aronow, but his case is probably better suited to a series of magazine article or a true crime paperback than a full-length feature. Scurfield never elevates the predictable material and the flashback structure largely scuttles any possible suspense right from the start. Not recommended, Speed Kills opens tomorrow (11/16) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Life on the Line: Travolta Works the Fourth Most Dangerous Job

It has been forty-eight years since pop culture addressed the trials and travails of electrical linemen. Frankly, we should have waited longer. Glen Campbell’s classic pop song “Wichita Lineman” has not lost any of its potency, whereas this film is a dud. It is true, linesmen do incredibly dangerous work just to keep our Xboxes humming along. Just in case we forget, viewers will be constantly reminded of that grim fact by the cornball dialogue of David Hackl’s Life on the Line (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Beau Ginner used to be a one of the few slackers working on the lines, but he got serious when his brother was killed by lightning fixing his slap-dash job. But wait, it gets worse—his sister-in-law also dies in a car crash while rushing to the hospital that fateful rainy night. Ginner suddenly gets serious when forced to raise his niece Bailey on his own.

When Hackl Flashes forward ten or fifteen minutes, Ginner is now a foreman, who is determined to send the forgiving Bailey to college, but she has her own reasons for staying in town. They involve her dopey boyfriend Duncan, whom Ginner can’t stand, even though he just hired on as a lineman on Ginner’s crew. They will have their work cut out for them. The grid is wearing thin and the utility execs are constantly cutting corners, while a freak storm is brewing on the horizon, as we can tell from the handy countdown clock Hackl provides.

Nobody wants to belittle the dedication of our nation’s linemen. After all, it is the “fourth most dangerous job in the United States,” as Ginner tells us whenever he slips in encyclopedia mode. However, this would have made a better History Channel reality TV show than a narrative feature. Words like manipulative do not sufficiently describe its melodramatic excesses. However, the maudlin denouement collapses into one long fundraising video for the Fallen Linemen non-profit. It is surely a worthy cause, but lets just say watching the cast visit the Linemen memorial does not resonate as deeply as the ending of Schindler’s List.

To be fair, John Travolta can still connect with his blue-collar roots. As Ginner, he provides the film a dignified anchor. In contrast, porcelain ice queen Kate Bosworth looks as out of place as Bailey Ginner as Queen Elizabeth at a monster truck rally. Poor Gil Bellows just looks ridiculous playing Ginner’s best bud in what looks like a Unabomber beard. Devon Sawa (cast as Duncan) looks bizarrely similar to two other actors, which is problematic, considering one is a suicidal Iraq veteran lineman and the other is a psycho stalking his wife.

As soon as the opening credits roll, we are waiting the film to play “Wichita Lineman,” because how could it not? Instead, it serves up an embarrassingly cheesy duet, featuring Darius Rucker (formerly of Hootie & the Blowfish) and British country singer Fiona Culley that sounds like a deliberate attempt to discredit the power ballad.  Maybe we would remember the film more fondly if it had not assaulted us with such bombastic treacle.

Sadly, Life on the Line represents a step backwards for Hackl and the meathead merits of his previous film, Into the Grizzly Maze (starring Billy Bob Thornton as a creepy Zenned-out bear-hunter). It is all so earnestly well-intentioned, which makes it so uncomfortably awkward to watch. Sorry linemen, there is just no way to recommend Life on the Line when it opens today (11/18) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Ti West’s In the Valley of Violence

Now its proximity to the Mexican border only gives it a comparative advantage in crime and exploitation. All the decent folk have long since left, but the stranger who rides into town is no choirboy. He is not looking for trouble, but it finds him nonetheless in Ti West’s In the Valley of Violence (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

His name is Paul, but he is the sort of gunslinger who often has no name. The Mexico-bound former cavalry man has deserted due to his mounting revulsion for the so-called “Indian campaigns.” We can tell by looking at him he was disgusted by the killing, precisely because he was so darned good at it. However, Gilly, the ringleader of the local Denton ne’er-do-wells is not so fast on the uptake. As the town Marshal’s deadbeat son, he can usually get away with his bullying behavior, but Paul is an entirely different sort of cat, just like his assertive dog Jumpy.

Like night follows day, Gilly challenges Paul when he reluctantly stops for supplies. Paul might have let things slide had the entitled thug not threatened his dog. When Paul duly shows him up, the chagrined marshal rather apologetically runs him out of town, to preserve public order. At that point, the deserter and the lawman would be fine letting matters stand, but not Gilly. Of course, he and his entourage lay a trap for Paul, but they only succeed in killing Jumpy. We know what that means—and so does West, who delivers Charles Bronson levels of vicarious payback.

Who knew Ethan Hawke had so much Eastwood in him? Granted, it is more of the tortured Josey Wales Eastwood, but it definitely still counts. He instantly projects a sense of a man well acquainted with death, while delivering West’s frequently droll dialogue with wry understatement. He also forges some terrific (albeit slightly problematic) ambiguous romantic chemistry with Taissa Farmiga, as Mary Anne the younger and more naïve of the two sisters operating the town’s high vacancy hotel.

Yet, the real scene stealer is none other than John Travolta, who gleefully gnaws the scenery even as his character struggles to be the voice of reason. Travolta been grinding out a spate of VOD-theatrical day-and-date B-movies, but Valley gives us reason to hope he might just have yet another comeback in him. As an extra added bonus for cult movie fans, West’s frequent co-conspirator Larry Fessenden does his thing playing one of Gilly’s ill-fated cronies.

Although The Sacrament was billed as a departure for West, the Jonestown-inspired found footage thriller was not really so far removed from the horror field. Granted, there is a spot of blood here and there in Valley, but it is a western through and through. Clearly, West has some affection for this genre too, at least as it was realized in Italian productions. He stages some nifty gun fights and pens some razor-sharp, attitude-drenched dialogue. It is a retro blast with uber-modern sensibility. Very highly recommended for a wide spectrum of genre fans, In a Valley of Violence opens this Friday (10/21) in New York, at the Village East.

The Forger: Travolta’s Monet

Raymond J. Cutter is not exactly Raffles or the Pink Panther. This working class art thief and forger is a decidedly Gloomy Gus. His son Will’s terminal illness gives him a very valid reason. To get out of prison while there is still time to reconnect with the young lad, Cutter makes a deal with the devil involving a Monet. Eventually, things will get caperish in Philip Martin’s The Forger (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

With a little less than a year left on his sentence, Cutter would ordinarily sit tight and do the time. Unfortunately, time is one thing Will Cutter does not have, so Cutter reaches out to Keegan, a Boston mobster, to “fix” things with the judge. Of course, there will be a quid pro quo. In this case, Cutter must steal Monet’s Woman with a Parasol on loan from the National Gallery, replacing it with a fake. It seems Keegan desperately needs to clear a debt to his art-loving cartel connection—hence the caper.

It takes a while to get to the actual art thievery though. Instead, Martin and screenwriter Richard D’Ovidio force viewers to cool their heels in a lot of hospital waiting rooms and sit through many father-and-son heart-to-hearts. Patience and character development are both good things, but at some point the film starts to feel like it is stalling for time.

It has been a while since Travolta rekindled that old magic on-screen, but in a way that works to his advantage here. Believe it or not, he is quite good as Cutter, forcefully conveying all his guilt and regret, without wallowing in melodramatic excess. Unfortunately, Tye Sheridan is pretty dull and wooden as his son, whereas it is hard to know what to make of Christopher Plummer as Travolta’s extremely Irish father.

There are random flashes of chemistry between Travolta and Abigail Spencer’s Special Agent Paisley, but the film goes out of its way to keep them apart. The actual heist is well executed, but the film’s baffling casts its lead characters as Red Sox fans, thereby making it extremely difficult to establish any degree of viewer sympathy.

Much to the frustration of his fans, The Forger probably ranks as one of Travolta’s better vehicles in recent years (anyone care to make a case for Old Dogs or Wild Hogs? Anyone?). It is not without merit, but it is maddeningly uneven and undeniably slow out of the blocks. Watchable but hardly worthy of Manhattan movie ticket prices, The Forger opens tomorrow (4/24) in New York, at the AMC Empire.