Hancock Phooey

Up until last night, Will Smith has had a positive influence on my life. I was brought up on a diet of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air; one of my first dates, with sweaty palms and lemon bon bons, was to see Men in Black and I have never missed to opportunity to throw some shapes, celebrating all things sunny, with Jazzy Jeff and his aforementioned partner in crime.
Therefore, I was aghast when I learned last week that Will Smith is 39. I couldn't believe that my peter pan prince is now middle aged. This is traumatic information. Nevertheless, it becomes less important in light of the bemused disappointment I felt as I stepped out of the cinema yesterday evening.
Hancock- the basic plot is fairly well known; I am not reviewing a fresh film in any sense. From the trailer and the opening, we know where we are: we accept the subversion of genre. Hancock is a reluctant superhero- gone are the days when these uberhumans embraced their duty, casting their own well-being aside for the altruistic prevention of imminent apocalyse. Hancock drinks whisky in abundance; doesn't wash and will sexually assault women if it doesn't involve too much effort.
He flounders with the concept of post millenium Armeggedon. He isn't a very thoughtful champion of the people (and they let him know as much). He frequently turfs up roads and likes bashing into buildings all at a heavy cost to the honest taxpayer. Quite frankly, his world saving antics cause far too much mess and LA have had it up to here. They call for his arrest and, at this convenient point, he happens to save the life of a benevolent philanthropist PR exec, Ray. Yes I was dubious about the existence of such a person but it gets better (well actually worse really).
Ray takes Hancock home and decides that he will be his new project. His son loves this rugged, smelly potential uncle figure but his wife is not keen. Actually she is ridiculously not keen, so much so that I wanted an explanation for her seemingly irrational hatred. I got it, but it came at a price...
Anyway, the high point of the film comes around one third in and involves several cathartic acts such as Hancock serving some retributive justice to an archetypal bully: a long haired, French boy with a girl's name. Also, under the advice of Ray, he incarcerates himself to gain the respect of the community again. He achieves Winstonesque daddy status quickly. At this point I sat back and thought, yes I am enjoying the anal humour here; but where will it go for the next 40 minutes or so?
Oh lordy, there are few films that I have seen that get so crap so quickly. The downward spiral involves an unconvincing villain and a farcical twist. Peter Berg was responsible for Friday Nights Light and I cannot comprehend how a director who is capable of clear virtuosity could churn out such dross. That said, the answer may lie with the £93 million worth of tickets it has sold.
I was shocked by how awful the ending was: it will haunt me. That said, I really don't want to stop getting nostalgically jiggy with Will- I can only hope he became prematurely excited after reading the first half of the script and ejaculated his signature all over the contract. Had he persisted, he may have thought better of it.