The shadowy and the shallow

Much of The Good Shepherd happens in shadow, and the things that transpire in broad daylight are quickly swallowed up by the dark. The main character, Wilson (Matt Damon), is a CIA counterintelligence officer, and he seems to have been destined for this line of work: at age six he discovers his father’s body, and hides the suicide note.

The note remains sealed for 36 years, until the failed American invasion of Cuba forces Wilson to reassess what he believes in.

In between there are scenes from his life: the lead female role in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta at Yale, induction into the secret society Skull and Bones, a romance with a deaf coed that ends when he is seduced by a classmate’s sister, his intelligence training in London during the Blitz, and the betrayals and deceits that make up his profession.

There’s a weak subplot concerning his failed marriage that cannot be saved, not even by casting Angelina Jolie as Mrs. Wilson. (Why would you cast Jolie as the wife who sits at home while her husband wages an intelligence war with the Russians? Shouldn’t she be out liberating prison camps or something?)

It’s a strange life, bleak and tension-filled, and one wonders why Wilson chose it. He does it for love of his country; it is essential that he believe this. The film, directed by Robert De Niro (who is apparently no longer interested in acting; his performances in the last decade have the air of a retirement fund) from a screenplay by Eric Roth, has the mood and tone of the literary spy novels of Eric Ambler and John Le Carre. There’s no James Bond gadgetry and no Jason Bourne hand-to-hand combat; there is a heavy pall of guilt and melancholy. It gave me an appetite for one of Graham Greene’s "entertainments" — I remembered I had a copy of Stamboul Train somewhere.

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From the moment he took off his war helmet and insulted the dwarf in The Two Towers, I have been devoted to Karl Urban. My friends "discovered" him even earlier, when he played Cupid and Caesar on Xena, Warrior Princess. We were thrilled to see him as the Russian assassin in The Bourne Supremacy, and openly rooted for him over the amnesiac hero.

We found things to like about The Chronicles of Riddick, the overambitious sequel to Pitch Black. In Riddick, Karl wears a sort of science-fiction Mohawk, straight-line eyebrows, and armor that looks like the Guggenheim Museum designed by Frank Gehry. He plays the Lord Vaako, an aspirant to the throne of an evil race — I can’t remember what they’re called, but like all self-respecting villains they are on a quest for universal domination. The Lord Vaako is married to a harridan played by Thandie Newton of the Bella Flores school of eyebrow acting. (The proponents of this acting school include Rodrigo Santoro as Xerxes in 300, or as I like to call it, Ubermenschen in der Unterpantzen.) The filmmakers throw in Dame Judi Dench and Linus Roache to class up the production, but there’s only so much one can do with Vin Diesel.

We even enjoyed Doom, a very silly movie based on the very violent videogame, and starring Duane Johnson, a.k.a. The Rock. The Rock is a far more engaging performer than Diesel, thanks to his background in professional wrestling, but the film’s title predicts its own fate.

At least Karl emerges as the hero in Doom, a good omen for his action career.

So we went to see Karl’s latest movie, Pathfinder, a remake of a European action movie. Pathfinder is set in North America hundreds of years before Columbus "discovered" it. Marauding Vikings appear during the opening credits, go on a killing rampage, then quickly return to Scandinavia. Mysteriously they leave one of their own — a young boy who is raised by a Native American family.

The boy grows up to be Karl Urban, who is the very definition of "strapping," although I’d always thought the Vikings were blonde. The Viking raiders return and slaughter Karl’s entire village; of course he vows revenge. What follows is a kind of pre-Columbian Rambo, in which our hero sets traps and picks off the enemy one by one. (Apocalypto does this much better.) Unfortunately our hero manages to get many of his own people killed. The scene where he’s tied to the Vikings as they walk along a narrow mountain ledge is so cartoonish, we were convulsed with giggles.

In director Marcus Nispel’s vision of that era, the sun never comes out for more than 30 seconds. All the fighting happens in the dark, so you can’t really tell who’s whacking whom. Worse, Karl spends most of the movie covered in fur. There are many shots of snow-capped peaks, sheer cliffs and breathtaking vistas, but not enough of Karl’s face and torso.

There’s a romantic angle involving the old pathfinder’s daughter played by Moon Bloodgood (that is her screen name), but it doesn’t work.

Still we stuck around, hoping the ice age would end, spring would arrive, and Karl would take off the winter clothing. It doesn’t happen. Karl, we adore you, but now we must face the unpleasant truth: your last three movies were unworthy of you. Call us, we need to talk.