107 mins, Thriller, Ewan McGregor, Hugh Jackman, MichelleWilliams, Charlotte Rampling, Maggie Q, Natasha Henstridge. Director:Marcel Langenegger.
AUDIENCES like to think they are smarterthan the scriptwriter; that by concentrating closely, they can pick upon subtle clues and solve the mystery before the characters.
Moreoften than not, audiences are right, but every once in a while, ascriptwriter's ingenuity wrong-foots even the keenest mind (The CryingGame, The Usual Suspects, The Sixth Sense).
Mark Bomback,who penned Die Hard 4.0 and now the erotically charged thrillerDeception, won't be adding his name to that illustrious list.
Hesignposts every twist and turn so clearly that you would have to dozethrough the opening hour for the film to maintain the element ofsurprise.
For example, we're tipped off that a leakingpipe is important because the central character actively seeks out abuilding superintendent to fix the leak and director Marcel Langeneggerframes at least one shot with the pipe prominent in the background.
Subtlety is not part of the film's limited vocabulary.
Thedrippy chump at the centre of the intrigue is corporate auditorJonathan McQuarry (McGregor), a loner with an appreciation for orderand symmetry.
When he's not crunching numbers in theboardrooms of blue chip Manhattan clients, Jonathan spends nights infront of the television, alone.
So a chance encounter with suave corporate lawyer Wyatt Bose (Jackman) is just the jolt of excitement he needs.
Wyattintroduces his shy pal to "The List", New York's underground sex club,which encourages professionals to enjoy the sins of the flesh, nostrings attached.
Jonathan falls under the spell of theenigmatic S (Williams), who vanishes after one rendezvous, leavingbehind bloodstained sheets in their Chinatown hotel room.
The auditor soon realises that he has been ensnared in a web of betrayal from which there is no easy escape.
Deceptioncoasts along on a wave of improbabilities, without any injections ofpace or stylistic flair from first-time feature director Langenegger todivert attention from the gaping plot holes.
An explosive'accident' makes no sense, in terms of its execution and theconsequences, and Jonathan's discovery of key facts hinges on a chancetelephone call from a stranger (Maggie Q).
As for theludicrous finale, thank goodness for the proliferation of tourists whomanage to smuggle handguns through airport security.
Inthe most underwritten of the main roles, Williams makes the biggestimpact, teasing out ambiguities in her blonde femme fatale.
McGregorisn't stretched as a lonely, disconnected soul with a penchant forbaggy Y-fronts, and the American accents waver in scenes with Jackman,one of the film's producers.
It's easy to understand hisattraction to Wyatt: he wears US4,000 dollar designer suits, bedscountless women and is worshipped by one scantily clad acquaintance forhis prowess between the sheets.
"You know when it's so good you'd rather die than stop?" she pants.
If only we could get half as excited by Langenegger's film.
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