Stars:
* 1/2
Rating: R for language
and violence
Run
Time: 1
hour, 56 minutes
Clint
Eastwood lays a goose egg with this uncharacteristically dreary drama about the
limits of respect and tolerance.
Eastwood
stars and directs himself as cantankerous Korean War vet Walt Kowalski with a
chip on his shoulder the size of the Matterhorn. He lives alone – his wife
having just passed – and has no relationship to speak of with his adult sons.
Walt appears
to be surrounded on all sides by Hmong families who keep to themselves and
their own cultural curiosities. Until a neighborhood teen named Thao (Bee Vang)
finds himself with a debt of honor to repay after he attempts to steal Walt’s prized,
cherry condition 1972 Gran Torino.
Walt puts
Thao to work in his home and yard, grudgingly handing over small odd jobs and
offering manly advice on testosterone and tools. A relationship blossoms as
Walt breaks out of his shell and Thao feels admiration
for the father figure he never had (groan). Side plot features Thao and his
sister Sue (Ahney Her) repeatedly harassed by a local
Hmong gang who ultimately take things one step too far.
Pretty sure
the venerable Eastwood gets carte blanche at Warner Bros. because no studio
exec worth his or her salt would willingly greenlight this poorly acted and
heavily clichéd melodrama that’s more TV-movie-of-the-week than end of the
season Oscar bait.
Clint could
do this part in his sleep and he does, overplaying the wounded
psyche/conflicted Catholic routine yet again. A tired
caricature of himself seen one time too many from “Dirty Harry” to “Million
Dollar Baby”. He delivers his lines Clint-style, growling “Get off my
lawn” with the same threatening timber as Harry Callahan’s “Go ahead, make my day”. Walt’s racist posturing is downright
cringe-worthy and one has to ponder his questionable choices for the pivotal
roles of Thao and Sue; wooden, amateur performances that make Walt’s obvious
shortcomings look worse not better. Ditto the local priest (Christopher Carley)
whose constant refrain on redemption has the dramatic heft of a wet hankie.
Climax is
an overindulgent grasp at something meaningful that misses by a country mile. “Torino” reeks of a bad vanity project -- disappointing doesn’t
begin to describe.