Anyway, we're in J. Crew-land instead of Shaft-dom with What Lies Beneath, which aspires to horror and comes closer to horrible. We learn things besides the fact that dead people want justice, namely (1) Michelle Pfeiffer can scream really loud, (2) Harrison Ford is so irresistible women apparently come back from the dead to make out with him, (3) ghosts like hot baths, (4) like Steven Seagal, Harrison Ford is hard to kill, and (5) there is evidently a town in Vermont called Adamant, which I think is a little bit over the top in terms of a tribute to "Goody Two-Shoes." Either that, or it's sledgehammer symbolism.
If you've ever seen any horror or suspense film, you will know everything that happens in What Lies Beneath. Director Robert Zemeckis telegraphs any startling or scary moments so far in advance and so obviously that you'd think it was a Scream-like parody, except it's so deadly grim. He hits all the stock requisites for a thriller: startling noise or movement that turns out to be innocuous? Check (multiple times). Red herring plot line that turns out to be innocuous? Check. Scary things keep happening in the house yet the main character inexplicably stays there and even goes into rooms where she knows something creepy is going to be and then acts surprised when there's something creepy there? Check. Annoying best friend who gets killed? Semi-check (she unfortunately lives through the movie, despite my fervent telepathic pleas to the contrary). Villain who won't die, causing multiple climaxes (not in a good way)? Check and double check.
Michelle Pfeiffer actually does a good job and is the only person who's either likable or entertaining. And most of the movie is tolerable enough -- if not good, then at least not bad enough to walk out of. When I complained recently to my friend Ed that my life sucks, he sent me this reply, "During my long commutes, I've been listening to an old Richard Pryor tape where one of his stock characters, a junkie, is asking a wino on the street for some psychological help: 'Tell me some of yo' lies, ol' MF, to keep me from thinkin' bout the truth.' So when all else fails, go see a movie, right?" Right -- these "lies beneath" kept me from thinkin' 'bout the truth for a little while at least, which was all I was really looking for.
And then the movie becomes silly. At first it's just slightly silly, hardly enough to mention. But the silliness snowballs until it becomes very silly, then extremely silly, then ridiculously silly. At the ridiculously silly point, I entertained myself by thinking up the absolute silliest plot development I could imagine -- and by gum if it didn't happen 30 seconds later, in an even more grand guignol fashion than I dreamed. In fact, I'd almost say it's worth seeing the movie just to see how ludicrous it gets (needless to say, wait till it comes out on video).
Now, I wasn't seeing this with the most sophisticated or independent-thinking audience in the world. They screamed -- very, very loudly, even more loudly than Michelle Pfeiffer -- right on cue, like trained monkeys. But by the end of the movie, even they were giggling when the movie obviously wanted them to be screaming. Actually, they laughed at weird times all through the movie. Like when, after having been terrified by creepy noises and fleeting visions of a dead woman, Michelle Pfeiffer quite understandably goes to a psychiatrist. The audience thought this was hilarious for some reason. I mean, who did they want her to call -- Ghostbusters? (Although I'd like to point out that when Harrison Ford gets serious about finding someone to help his wife, he goes right to the best. That's right: in a plot point that sadly fails to develop, he calls Duke University. He might wear the Harvard t-shirt, but when it comes time to get the best of the best, he knows where to go.)
You know, this is the second movie I've seen about obsessive love in as many days. Perhaps I ought to take a break.
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