Training Day

Denzel Washington has been playing saints, martyrs, heroes, and other men on the side of right and reason for so long that it's both a shock and a pleasure to watch him play bad, bad cop Alonzo Harris of the not-especially-good-itself LAPD in "Training Day." It almost seems as though an actor's lifetime of antisocial impulses have been channeled into Washington's portrayal of this one character.

Harris' smiles are feral, like the wolf he likens himself to, and his movements, for all their confident casualness, are deceptively quick. He spews verbal abuse and spins fantastic tales with equal and unrestrained glee. For Harris, people exist as means to ends, and he takes great pleasure in putting them in their places. His twin pistols get most of his genuine affection, and he just loves the smell of gunpowder in the morning, afternoon or night. Harris is, in short, a heaping helping of formidable evil. But because it's Denzel - charismatic, sly, and handsome as all get-out - you just can't stop watching.

It's a good thing for "Training Day" that we can't stop watching Denzel, because the rest of the film isn't nearly as interesting as he. "Training Day" thinks it is a discussion of how many civil liberties we are willing to give up to keep our streets safe - a sort of "Dirty Harry" for the new millennium. It does not provide this discussion, due to failures of screenwriting and direction by David Ayer and Antoine Fuqua, respectively. What it does provide is a whole lotta Denzel being very, very bad. And you will remember Denzel in this film, even as you forget the rest of it.

Forgettable elements include Jake Hoyt (Ethan Hawke), the young, idealistic cop whose training day it is. From the two cops' first meeting, when Harris verbally cuts off Hoyt left and right, leaving Hoyt bewildered and dismayed, we realize that Hawke's performance is going to be one long reaction shot to Denzel doing his thing. Hoyt, of course, is the designated representative of due process and criminals' rights in the film, always gumming up the workings of real justice with his insistence on, you know, actually reporting crimes to the police station. Or not drinking while driving. Or not stealing money and drugs from criminals. The list goes on.

It's a wonder that Hoyt does. Despite the way Hawke plays Hoyt, with a timidity born of obsequiousness and ambition, it's hard to imagine a real cop not being aware that Harris has an operation going on that makes the infamous LAPD Rampart divisions look like small-town crossing guards. Even if he hadn't known about that, one might think Hoyt would have a second thought when Harris strongly encourages him to smoke some marijuana that had been dusted with PCP, as Hoyt later discovers when his vision turns blurry and unreliable.

Or Hoyt might notice that all the scenes he appears in have something vaguely spoiled about their color, and that ominous, treading music by Mark Mancina underscores everything he does. Fuqua has directed three films, and each has been more lugubrious than the last: slow-moving, almost turgidly dark, and with slow motion inserted just to make sure you understand that someone important is moving around. (This film adds pigeon imagery jacked from John Woo and Jim Jarmusch to his repertoire.) Fuqua's style works well in small doses, but over a whole film it tends to deaden any drama that may be developing. Perhaps Hoyt stays with Harris because just about the only thing Fuqua can't obliterate with his direction is the charisma of Denzel.

As Harris and Hoyt roll up in tougher and tougher neighborhoods, they take time to discuss the law enforcement methods appropriate to an urban, high-crime locale. Harris talks a lot about how one must use violence and skirt legality in creative ways, and when you see the flat desolation and crackling tension which hang over such bailiwicks as the Imperial Heights housing complex (shot on location, to Fuqua's credit), you're ready to believe him.

But while Harris talks eloquently about getting rid of the gangbangers by banging harder than they ever could, an attentive viewer will notice that almost everything Harris does in this film is unambiguously criminal - not criminal in the sense of outlawed by a judicial system that handcuffs the officers rather than the perpetrators, but criminal in the sense of stealing from or endangering innocent civilians. Harris tells us eventually that everything he does is for the best, but he's also told enough lies that no one sane would believe him.

By the end, thankfully, Ayer and Fuqua have forgotten about the police-methods discussion and simply give us Denzel being bad vs. Hawke being good. And the final scenes of this movie are a treat, gripping even though Hawke is not a natural action hero, simply because Denzel makes Harris so completely certain he can't lose when it's obvious that he'll never win.

"Training Day," on the other hand, could have won accolades and attention for its cause if it were a better-made film than it is. One could easily see Ayer making his script more complex, and Fuqua not using such a heavy directorial hand, and an extremely successful film resulting from their labors. Instead, they have a mediocre good cop-bad cop film, made somewhat enjoyable only by the awesome power of Denzel.

CARS DRIVE BY WITH THE BOOMIN' SYSTEMS

This is not only the only film I've ever seen which has a "G-ride" credit, but it's also definitely the only film to discuss that credit in the press kit (provided by Allied Advertising, bless their souls). Here is the discussion, presented with a few comments:

Although rapt attention was paid to creating authentic street scenes [clauses like this make me realize that I never want to write this stuff for a living], much of "Training Day" was shot inside Alonzo and Jake's car. Of course, this isn't just any ordinary vehicle. [Not just ordinary?] As undercover cops, they fit into the 'hood by driving a flashy 1978 Monte Carlo low rider known in their lingo as a "G-ride." [This term is never used anywhere in the film, so I don't know how it could be said to be part of Hoyt and Harris' lingo. But anyway.]

The "G-Ride" [sudden capitalization sic] was designed by Marc Laidler of 310 Motoring, a company that customizes cars for the likes of the L.A. Lakers and other star athletes [presumably not the L.A. Clippers]. "We wanted something classy and stylish that Alonzo and Jake could get by riding in the hood," says Laidler [sudden disappearance of apostrophe from "hood" sic]. "Once we had the 78 Monte Carlo, we tricked it out with hydraulics, chrome, tinted windows and a big mahogany steering wheel." [And lo, it is beautiful. Laidler does good work. I'm sorry I couldn't fit a mention of the ride into the review.]

The result was a high-style haven for the film's main characters. "The car is like a third character in the movie," says [producer] Jeff Silver. "The cops go in there and this is their universe. They have their conversations, their private moments and their arguments and then they come out and have to face the real world. But while they're in it, it's their cocoon." [Except when it's getting shot up midway through the film.]

When I see a credit like "G-Ride: 310 Motoring," I definitely want to stay for the rest of the credits, to see if there's anything else interesting. But then I heard words, spoken in a low voice redolent of Yonkers, that will bring a chill to any music lover's heart: "Puff Daddy. David Bowie. Unh." Yes, the latest artists to be subjected to P.'s diddlings is Bowie, and specifically his song "This is Not America." I do not know this song, but it was transcribed for and recorded by the Ahn (piano) Trio, and since the Ahn Trio is composed entirely of extremely attractive young women, "This Is Not America" must be a classic. (That's all the evidence I need for classic status: hotties like it.) Anyway, this song features the worst rapping I have ever heard from Puff Daddy. He's not even trying any more. I stayed for about half of the new song and then left.

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