Review: The King

There is definitely a good movie somewhere in the idea of a Texas minister's half-Mexican bastard child coming back to visit after getting out of the Navy. Knowing this, one could only dream that Gael Garcia Bernal would play the son and William Hurt the father. Yet having seen just such a film, even with the added attraction of Paul Dano, I just want my 105 minutes back and the memory purged from my mind.

I'd like to know whether a worse film has ever been made with three great actors near the peak of their careers. Despite its cast, and a fairly good indie look, the film's flaws are so distracting they needle at the mind even as we gaze upon a shirtless Bernal. This particular accomplishment, at least, is one that will stand out for decades to come.

Hurt is really quite good as Pastor David Sandow, who preaches at a big fundamentalist church in Corpus Christi, Texas, alongside teen-aged son Paul (Dano), who plays Christian rock. Sandow also has a fragile wife (Laura Harring) and a straight-laced daughter, Malerie (Pell James). Director James Marsh, a documentarian, shows Corpus Christi (apparently really Austin) with a refreshing realism of hard light and banal modern architecture. The entry of Elvis (Bernal), who quickly takes a liking to Malerie, introduces the requisite twist.

But a violent incident soon sucks all the air out of the story. Bernal is one of the greatest actors in the world, but here I find he falls short. Rather than silently brooding, he came off as simply impassive. Lacking a sense of his love for Malerie, underlying motivations, or level of rage, we are reduced to simply waiting for something else to happen. Marsh and co-writer Milo Addica could have turned The King into a drama of emotional confessions and confrontations, but they inexplicably chose not to. Instead, as the events grow more bizarre, the emotional responses grow more subdued. This may sound like an interesting effect, but trust me, it's not.