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Rating: Does a hair of Will Smith pull more than a cart of oxen?
It would seem so, if in America, despite the heavy criticisms of Gabriele Muccino's latest effort, many have rushed to see it, elevating it to second place in the ranking of cinepanettone preferences. And because I don't want to believe that Muccino's name or the leaked story could have convinced so many people to ignore the bulk of movie critics, who didn't spare the Italian director and the former prince of Bel Air, considering them in the last cases "incomprehensible" or "heroes in the final stage." I believe, instead, that Smith has now become a box office champion and that any of his appearances, regardless of content, is gold in the hands of filmmakers.
But without wanting to be critical, without wanting to give credence to the American criticism, how is this Seven Pounds?
For me, it's a judgment similar in every way to the previous Muccino-Smith collaboration, The Pursuit of Happyness: both are a celluloid version of an episode of Carramba che sorpresa or any other tear-jerking program, classic films with a lump in the throat and a handkerchief replacing a tub of popcorn. Both are directed by an average director, the good Muccino, who relies on the assured "Mr. Dollar" Will for miracles. Only Seven Pounds wants to give a pessimistic vision, overly so and if it weren't necessary, of life and elevate an ordinary man to the role of superhero but without superpowers.
It's Smith who keeps the film afloat. He's good, especially because by now he has completely shed that cavalier attitude that in the past made him less believable to me in so-called serious roles. And it's his suffering as a guilty man, hidden by a false veil of security, his obstinate mission of redemption, the leitmotif of the film.
He's good but what he's trying for is, objectively, hard to believe. The desire to help seven people after having killed as many, the slow and inexorable self-destruction of the protagonist clashes with the logic of survival inherent in every living being. The sense of guilt, however big, however grown in the protagonist's soul, comes up against the natural instinct of preservation: in the end, survival is what matters. This, unfortunately, escapes Muccino, who in the quest for "the shot that makes you cry" disregards fundamental rules of our existence. And Smith's talent, the sweetness and weaknesses of the character played by Rosario Dawson, are not enough to change my opinion that the whole construction is artificial.
Thus, the director who always sought to tell his reality (always his but never mine, who knows why) in films like The Last Kiss and Remember Me suddenly turns into an improbable chansonnier or, if you will, a minstrel singing of loves, bandits, and spotless heroes.
In short, a bit romantic, a bit science fiction...
Rating, 2.5
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