By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Carolina Del Busto
By Amy Nicholson
By Simon Abrams
By Kevin Dilmore
By New Times
By Amy Nicholson
When Affleck keeps getting work, the terrorists have won. With blank eyes and soft features, he has none of the gravitas of his predecessors, Alec Baldwin and Harrison Ford, who saved the world with swagger. Affleck merely looks like a frat boy in over his head, which is perhaps the point: The CIA's headquarters, crammed with computer nerds tickling keyboards while leering at surveillance-cam footage, resembles a frat house, with Ryan merely the coolest dork in the motley lot.
Yet Ryan's transformation from action hero to reaction zero is explicable. Paramount's playing the youth card, hoping to resurrect a franchise by dipping into Kevin Smith's shallow pool of talent. The studio likely figures it's better to pander to a mythical audience with loose change (the kids!) than to keep hauling out war-horses with faces creased by age and experience. Theirs is a Jack Ryan who looks ready to throw down at a kegger, not stare down a nuke. Surrounding him with older, better actors who go wasted Morgan Freeman as Bill Cabot, Ryan's would-be mentor; James Cromwell as an obtuse and petulant president; Philip Baker Hall as an impatient defense secretary does Affleck no favors. Nor does the presence of Liev Schreiber as a CIA operative whose nerve and charisma render Ryan impotent during their few scenes together. We can't take our eyes off Schreiber, and we can't keep our eyes open when Affleck's around.
Tom Clancy acolytes will surely stare at the screen in confusion, as screenwriters Paul Attanasio (responsible for far better films, among them Quiz Show and Donnie Brasco) and Daniel Pyne have gutted the 1991 novel, eliminating major characters and key plot points. The villains are now neo-Nazis, not Arabs, and no longer is Ryan suspected of cheating on his wife or insider trading, because here he has no wife: Dr. Cathy Muller Ryan, played by Anne Archer in both 1992's Patriot Games and 1994's Clear and Present Danger, is now just Dr. Cathy Muller, Jack's girlfriend, which suggests the existence of a time warp of some kind. The Sum of All Fears takes place in the present, yet it's something of a prequel to its three predecessors, including 1990's The Hunt for Red October.
Such retooling is about as comprehensible as the plot, which, when recounted, makes as much sense as someone talking about a dream they had three years ago. It begins in 1973, when those clumsy Israelis lose a nuke in the desert. Years later it's recovered by Arabs looking for scrap metal, who then sell it to Nazis (chief among them, leader Alan Bates) hatching a plan to pit the United States against Russia. The Nazis (speaking of time warp) figure that if they can plant a nuke at the Super Bowl (where Florida's playing Chicago and "The Star-Spangled Banner" has different music and lyrics, suggesting this is an alternate universe) and pin it on the Russians, then the two superpowers will blow each other up, Fail Safe-style, leaving plenty of nuclear-winter wonderland for the Nazis to claim as Third Reich territory. (It would seem Hitler's spawn do not mind such nuisances as radiation.) The story alone could force you to scratch a hole in your head.
The Sum of All Fears reaches its climax midpoint, when the Super Bowl is laid waste and Ryan is reduced to a bit player until the very end. Director Phil Alden Robinson (Field of Dreams, Sneakers) wants to have it both ways: He's dying to reveal the carnage, but he's also aware that doing so would open fresh wounds in the collective consciousness. So we're given mere hints of the devastation: a tidal wave of countryside destruction (from which Ryan emerges with only scant scrapes), a few scenes in a hospital, a neighborhood on fire (and no one's terribly frightened of the nuclear fallout). We're left to fill in the blanks with fresh memories of real-life destruction, and the result is alienating. We're no longer in the movie but out of the theater, hoping life doesn't again imitate art, as base as it is.
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