Edge of badness

Despite a great cast, fast-paced thriller
Nobel Son won’t win any prizes

FATALE FLAWS: Eliza Dushku

by MALCOLM FRASER

Director Randall Miller cut his teeth on mildly edgy ’90s TV series like Thirtysomething and Northern Exposure, and more recently directed the post-Sideways indie comedy Bottle Shock. His latest, Nobel Son, is a clear attempt to bust out of the middlebrow ghetto. Alan Rickman stars as physics professor, Nobel laureate and villainous bastard Eli Michaelson, the kind of role he was born to play. Mary Steenburgen is Rickman’s long-suffering wife Sarah and Bryan Greenberg plays their son, terminally frustrated student Barkley.

As the film begins, Greenberg is getting ready to fly with his parents to Sweden to attend Rickman’s Nobel ceremony. He gets picked up by sketched-out spoken-word artist City Hall (Eliza Dushku), and on his way back from their tryst, finds himself kidnapped by industrious young psycho Thaddeus (Shawn Hatosy). Hatosy has a bone to pick with Rickman, and a plan to get some of his money and glory.

From here, the story (by Miller and co-producer Jody Savin) develops into the biggest pile-up of twists and double-crosses this side of David Mamet. Miller is aided by an excellent cast, starting with the always reliable Steenburgen and the great Rickman, who devours his role—theatrically rolling his eyes, arching his brow as he peers down his nose at the world, and spitting acid reprimands left and right. Also on hand are such solid thespians as Bill Pullman, Danny DeVito and an underused Ernie Hudson, and the youngsters (all recognizable character actors from the Hollywood trenches) aren’t so shabby either.

With such a top-notch cast and an unpredictable, tightly paced script, Miller and Savin should have been able to make this a thoroughly entertaining Hollywood thriller with just the right balance of smarts and brain candy. But, sad to say, they get tripped up by a reliance on MTV-style editing and a truly horrendous soundtrack—the pop songs are bullshit L.A. techno-rock, and loathsome cheese-house producer Paul Oakenfold is one of the composers.

Plus, as is often the case with this sort of thriller, the plot’s tantalizing tease is much more appealing than its payoff. It’s the kind of film that you could praise for being a cut above the usual crap, but it ends up disappointing because it could have been so much better.

NOBEL SON OPENS THIS
FRIDAY, DEC. 5