Hancock

Blighted by a lazy script that regards the superhero genre as an excuse for ignoring tight plot structure and any sense of realism, Hancock is a star vehicle for Will Smith and Charlize Theron that manages to waste two magnetic central performances on mediocre action adventure.  Sometimes it is a mirthless comedy, sometimes a dull thriller: it is always a tired exercise in reframing clichés.

Hancock begins the film as an alcoholic superman, publicly derided and causing untold damage through his careless heroism.  Of course, the film follows his path to redemption – which consists of a new outfit and a willingness to vandalise the moon for his PR buddy – presenting an ill-defined origin myth and a series of dramatic, yet clumsy, plot twists that are given dignity only by Smith’s scowling screen presence.

The obligatory truck-liftings, building-smashings, and bad-guy-beatings feel curiously unemphatic: lacking a proper villain, Hancock battles problems that he has caused or are far beneath his dignity. Most irritatingly, the moral universe of Hancock is decidedly cynical.  The human hero, Jason Bateman, is a PR man who maintains that Hancock only needs to change his public behaviour to become a true hero.  He also promotes the idea that a new brand associated with generosity is the best way to save the world from the manifold evils of capitalism.  This empty-headed logic, combined with the smouldering sexual tension between his wife (Theron) and Hancock, situates a story of moral reformation in an amoral, right-is-might context.

Despite some extended and verbose explanations, Hancock’s existence and misery are never effectively clarified.  There are allusions to gods, creators and last hopes for the planet, but nothing is ever made concrete.  Equally, his alcoholism and depression are given no depth, no reason.  He regrets not knowing his past, so he drinks.  He finds out about his past, and he drinks.

Director Peter Berg and cinematographer Tobias Schliessler attempt to disguise these weaknesses with jump-cutting and moody atmospherics: the climactic battle takes place in disorientating and desiccated tones of blue, and switches between Smith and Theron rather too precisely.  Yet there is little that they can do to inject drama into a conflict that lacks any resonance beyond the immediate punching and killing.

In other words, Hancock fails to be either a satisfying allegory or a knock-down action thriller.  It is also infected with a tastelessness which makes its 12A certificate questionable.  Smith’s refusal to cuss on his last rap album made him a joke in the hip-hop media, yet he seems quite happy to indulge Hancock’s foul language and crass humour.  His performance, which captures the hero’s awkward moments of innocence and curmudgeonly heroism with the same effortless precision, promises far more than the script is able to deliver, and his presence – as both star and producer – suggest that his judgement is less developed than his acting ability.

Gareth Vile

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