Kevin Spacey, Jeff Bridges, and Mary McCormack
Directed By: Iain
my undying love for Kevin Spacey forbids
me from voicing my true opinion
I will say for those of you who like telegraphed fluff-n-nutter
complete with a Spielbergesque soundtrack accenting every blatant
metaphor that's been beaten into your head until your sick with
all the celluloid fructose you'll love K-PAX.
Prot (Kevin -Sharpei- Spacey), has just arrived on Earth from
his home planet of K-PAX. Quicker than you can yell for a cab
in Times Square, the NYPD take him into custody and have him committed
(like they'd even give a damn if they met another homeless
alien adrift on the streets of NYC
go with it).
the Hospital For Earthbound Aliens in upper Manhattan, Prot doesn't
seem to respond to his Thorazine even after he's given enough
to whack a quarterhorse, so it's off to the psychiatric center
for the scruffy yet adorably harmless alien.
Here he meets Dr. Powell (Jeff- I just wanted to work with Kev,
he's a hoot-Bridges). The doctor listens to Prot's stories of
K-PAX and starts to wonder if maybe Prot is a missing scientist
(who has gone a tad nuts) because Prot's solar and scientific
knowledge is remarkable.
Powell gets Prot a "get out of the mental ward free"
card and takes him for a visit to a planetary school filled with
extremely important scientists who test Prot's supposed knowledge.
In a matter of moments Prot explains the solar system he claims
to come from and even solves a space puzzle the team has been
pondering for decades
the doctors sit, mouths gaping, the soundtrack music is deafeningly
triumphant be warned. They all wonder aloud- "How
did this Prot fellow know this stuff !?"
back at the psychiatric ward a knd of Cocoon meets One
Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest is surfacing. The inmates, er,
patients, have also been listening to Prot's tales of K-PAX and
are following his planet's space-age mental healing methods with
great success. There are no complete recoveries, but happier happy
people shuffle about on their Prozac cocktails at least. Their
ward has taken on a nursery school feel, with a predominant spaceship
theme, as each patient wants the seat next to Prot when he beams
back up to K-PAX in a week. He's promised to take one lucky headcase
with him. The place is a flutter.
Powell is worried the trip back to K-PAX is nothing more than
a suicidal warning from a delusional intelligent man who calls
himself Prot. He's going to get to the bottom of Prot's mystery
( more deafeningly triumphant music inserted to direct your
emotion). Prot just can't be an alien, how ever clever, and how
ever much galactic interspacial knowledge his smirking facade
or can he.
Spacey was bound to play a space man at some point. Famous for
his wit, no doubt he entered K-PAX with a sly grin and a wink.
Mr. Talent has realized all his childhood dreams to date; he got
to be Hickey in Eugene O'Neill's mammoth The Iceman Cometh
on Broadway, he's won two Oscars in two categories, he's notorious
for sparking sexual controversy (always good for films) yet still
has an immense regular Joe sex appeal to him, and lastly the beautiful
man can sing (and sing well)! I'd do him in a nano-second bald
spot, questionable gender preference, hairy back and all. His
look in K-PAX only makes him more delectable gals; tough -n- scruffy
bearded with no hairpiece, smirking away like the cat who got
the fattest mouse, and dressed down in manly layman's gear. You
can literally hear the soft purr resonating through-out the female
audience at this decidedly manly lad. Still, five o'clock shadow
or not it's his next film, The Shipping
News, that's got me in a thespian addiction tizzy. This
K-PAX was a moonwalk for the lad.
Bridges, from the dynasty of Bridges, is scrumptious. He's aging
very well. The irony of his playing in a movie about a spaceman,
opposite Spacey after having been Starman way-back-when was not
lost here. Oh, I bet the two stars just rolled with laughter at
the end of the shoot over expensive cigars at a posh Beverly Hills
is a bit over emotional for my tastes; too obvious. And as my
mother always says, "If you've got nothing nice to say, blame
the director." And here, I believe the director (Iain Softley
- who's an extremely handsome chap) is to blame at least for the
repetitive hokey music, and replaying of "important"
scenes we were not suppose to forget. Trust your audience a little
loved Pay it Forward when others
I saw American Beauty's
beauty, I cheered for Big Kahuna
when others jeered it, I brought groups of friends to Usual Suspects
before Kevin was Kevin
but, alas this time I must, sadly,
Recommendation: Bananas (peeled for us Earthlings) and Red