However, for once, unfortunately, the movie has sunk to her level. Heist is an incomprehensible muddle that seems like the result of a Bad Mamet contest. His normally tightly constructed plot is full of holes here; his snappy dialogue keeps its rhythms, but the words are meaningless. ("She could talk her way out of a sunburn"? What the hell does that mean?) Lines that are supposed to be funny fall flat. There's a lot of needless violence, usually accompanied by quips that sound like the lamest bon mots uttered by Steven Seagal (I thought it was time to lay off Arnold Schwarzenegger). And all the complex double- and triple-crosses and red herrings and signals and all that slick, crime-movie stuff just seem ridiculously overdone.
The plot is built upon the premise that Gene Hackman is seen during a jewelry-store robbery and is in danger of being identified, so he's coerced into doing a big heist for Danny DeVito. But it's a faulty foundation: Hackman's supposed to be a master thief, but he neglects to put on his mask before the robbery and then, for good measure, spends several long moments gazing directly into security cameras (not to mention that the jewelry store employee who's seen him apparently never thought to call 911 after seeing all her coworkers keel over after drinking drugged lattes). He seems to think that he can't slip away from DeVito before the heist yet somehow thinks it'll be easier to slip away from him after the heist with millions of dollars in gold bars. And Hackman's character must be psychic or deific, because he accurately foresees every single betrayal and abrupt turn of events, no matter how outlandish, and has prepared for that exact eventuality down to the smallest detail. This from a man who couldn't remember to put on his mask before robbing a jewelry store.
Hackman, DeVito (who provides almost all of the few amusing moments in the film), and Sam Rockwell are the only actors who seem natural. Delroy Lindo is saddled with idiotically cryptic lines, like when he's pointing a gun at someone and shouts, "Your fate and your weight right here!" (Is that Mamet's attempt to make him sound like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction?) And, well, you know my thoughts on Rebecca Pidgeon.
Heist is a sour disappointment that robbed me of five bucks, two hours, and a great deal of my respect for David Mamet.
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