During his first (or was it his second?) comeback, the one that began with his role in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, John Travolta starred in the adaptation of Elmore Leonard’s Hollywood novel, Get Shorty. Here, playing a gangster with a twist, Travolta did well — and was well-supported by Gene Hackman, Danny DeVito, Rene Russo and Dennis Farinha. And, indeed, it was a cool, funny, well-made picture.
His fortunes having plummeted again after the disastrous Battlefield Earth and other dismal projects, Travolta obviously thought it a good idea to return to his character of Chili Palmer, the gangster and film buff who sweet-talked and bullshitted his way into the movie business. Thus, Be Cool, in which Chili now takes on the music industry.
The trouble with “being cool” is, of course, the ever-present risk of overdoing it, of turning too cool for school, a self-conscious poser, a pain to be around. And so it is with this preening sequel, which is too busy admiring itself in the mirror to get on with the real business of telling a story or developing characters (you know, all that boring stuff).
Waddling centre stage is Travolta as Chili, the jive-talking hustler with the heart of gold. Chili is dabbling in the music business, shepherding a plucky young songbird (Christina Milian) through a minefield of blinged-up gangsta rappers and hairy-chested Russian hoodlums. Along the way he even finds time to reprise his Pulp Fiction dance-floor scene with Uma Thurman, although the sight of these two knackered-looking stars shuffling gamely back and forth makes for an oddly dispiriting experience. It put me in mind of They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
Elsewhere, overacting is the order of the day. Vince Vaughn showboats amiably as an Ali-G-style record producer, The Rock has fun with his role as a gay bodyguard and Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler shows up to explain that he’s “not one of these singers who shows up in movies”. But it’s all very hit-and-miss. Some scenes have a nice, throwaway charm, but others wildly overstay their welcome.
I blame the director. When he’s not ogling the bootylicious bodies of his extras, F Gary Gray seems transfixed by the comedic antics of his cast. He shoots them at indulgent length as they flash their jewellery, parade in their snazzy suits and run off incessantly at the mouth. Be Cool practically gorges itself on these star turns. The longer it goes on, the more baggy and debauched it becomes. It needs to learn the difference between being phat and being fat.