Lakeview Terrace

Popular legend has it that Samuel L Jackson signed up for Snakes On A Plane as soon as he heard its unusually blunt title. No reading the script for him – just a quick phone call and a sign on the dotted line. He liked the concept that much.

It’s a cute story. But if it’s true, what convinced him to take part in Lakeview Terrace? Was it the title; a random pairing of words that indicate nothing about the film’s content or indeed anything else? Was it the chance to work with Neil LaBute, the celebrated playwright whose last film was the mortifying remake of The Wicker Man? Or was it, perhaps, a great big pile of money?

Lakeview Terrace casts Jackson as a thuggish, single-parent cop. He’s also a racist. So when a young mixed-race couple move in next door, it’s time to wheel out the patented Bad Muthafucka routine. It’s an act he does quite well – but boy, haven’t we seen it before. It’s hard to get excited by this shtick: even when Sam yanks down his trousers and goes mental in his boxer shorts, it feels depressingly tired and familiar. We know it and he knows it too.

It’s rare for mainstream Hollywood to successfully deal with Real Life issues in an informed, intelligent way – but at least most films make an effort to appear sincere. Lakeview Terrace treats racial tension as a neat excuse for yet another piss-weak thriller. Any pretence at incisive discussion is abandoned by the close of the first act, clearing the path for a spat of violence and a nauseatingly simplistic resolution.

On the basis of this and The Wicker Man, LaBute should really stay away from moving pictures. As for Sam, well, let’s hope he enjoys that nice fat cheque.

Neon Kelly

Anticipation:

Jackson goes crazy? Again? Whatever.

Enjoyment:

Predictably simplistic – almost offensively so.

In Retrospect:

Don't play it again, Sam.