The Judge is locked in a furious internal battle. It’s not an unredeemable film, but it is a terribly confused, meager film. There are notable moments, even good moments, but they are obscured in a cage of exhausted tropes and sentimentality. Like a premise Frankenstein, The Judge lumbers around trying to carry the burden of not one, but three tired stories. Each as stale as the last—the prodigal son, the death of a parent, and…wait for it…a murder trial—the film fails to even have fun with this hydra like exercise in routine. At the center of it all is Robert Downey Jr, and try as he might, even his concerted effort couldn’t lift this picture above its mess of flaws.
This is most certainly Downey’s film to carry, but not in a complimentary way. It’s as though Downey was the only one unaware this was roughly a 45% effort kind of shoot, and his 100% just seems…out of place. Not to denigrate the fine performances by Robert Duval and Vincent D’Onofrio, but everyone seems to clear the way for Downey. And watching so much talent line the gangway while RDJ struts about at full crank is not flattering. Not to the film, nor to Downey's wealth of talents. He goes all in, you can’t deny it, but to overplay such a putrid hand is less noble than it is self-indulgent.
Enough fault cannot be levied against the lackluster screenplay at the root of this film. Downey plays Hank Palmer, and where this may sound incredulous, Palmer is a white hot, sharp tongued, and morally ambiguous defense attorney. You seen this? You head about this? Hank Palmer lives in The City, a bad place where cheating wives live, but he is quickly called to his long forgotten home in The Country.
You can tell The Country is inherently good because the music is brighter and white kids hold fishing poles. But this is a sad trip because Mom is dead, and Estranged Father is a jerk who never quite ‘got’ his renegade son. Did we mention Estranged Father is a judge? Get it?
Oh, and Hank’s high school sweetheart, jilted when he turned tail to never return, still works at the local diner. No you’re not unconscious. No, you didn’t hallucinate this premise that reads like a ransom note cut from other mediocre film summaries. This is the effort of four (yup, one, two three, and four) screenwriters who must be convinced you’ve never seen a movie before.
David Dobkin’s direction is wildly inconsistent in every facet of production. Hop scotching from serio-dramedy to procedural to stark realism, none of these concepts are allowed to flourish in the face of such tonal inconsistency. Dobkin will give some moments the soft lens treatment and then counter with a scene where Dax Shepard blows chunks. No innuendo here, we get the full spray multiple times. This isn’t to say these things can’t be in the same film, but there was never solidified feeling enough to prop up these varied elements. Instead, The Judge is cluttered and uneven, but this hackneyed monster does shamble into a fine moment or two.
After testing you for 25 straight minutes, the film’s central arc, a murder mystery, emerges with some vigor. There are few pleasant moments with Downey and Emma Trembaly, the actress cast as Palmer's (precocious, duh) daughter Lauren. Dax Shepherd brings some levity, there are a few Downey/Duval sparks sprayed from the screen, and we're even treated to a Billy Bob Thornton sighting. But The Judge has one superb moment all to itself. As unflinching a portrayal of an ill parent as I’ve seen, an authentic experience works its way onto the screen. It’s only a moment, but it was honest, a trait conspicuously missing from the film.
There is some talk of legacies in The Judge. Duval’s is intact and Downey still has some crowning achievements in store for us, I’m sure of it. But the question of a Downey in full in a post Iron Man world is growing hazy. Since he donned the candy chrome super suit, his non-Marvel Universe films have been forgettable at best, and detestable at worst. It's tricky to navigate the waters away from and icon, but Downey's biggest Iron Man asset was he was only having to play himself.
Where I once adored his films for being an emblem of exactly where Downey was at that exact moment in his life, perhaps the dirty secret is he can't play anyone but himself. And maybe it's just me, but I don't need another film about rich, attractive assholes learning trite lessons. Because if the Downey as Downey theory holds, the lessons become interchangeable, and the rich asshole emerges as the legacy.
—Monte Monreal
This is most certainly Downey’s film to carry, but not in a complimentary way. It’s as though Downey was the only one unaware this was roughly a 45% effort kind of shoot, and his 100% just seems…out of place. Not to denigrate the fine performances by Robert Duval and Vincent D’Onofrio, but everyone seems to clear the way for Downey. And watching so much talent line the gangway while RDJ struts about at full crank is not flattering. Not to the film, nor to Downey's wealth of talents. He goes all in, you can’t deny it, but to overplay such a putrid hand is less noble than it is self-indulgent.
Enough fault cannot be levied against the lackluster screenplay at the root of this film. Downey plays Hank Palmer, and where this may sound incredulous, Palmer is a white hot, sharp tongued, and morally ambiguous defense attorney. You seen this? You head about this? Hank Palmer lives in The City, a bad place where cheating wives live, but he is quickly called to his long forgotten home in The Country.
You can tell The Country is inherently good because the music is brighter and white kids hold fishing poles. But this is a sad trip because Mom is dead, and Estranged Father is a jerk who never quite ‘got’ his renegade son. Did we mention Estranged Father is a judge? Get it?
Oh, and Hank’s high school sweetheart, jilted when he turned tail to never return, still works at the local diner. No you’re not unconscious. No, you didn’t hallucinate this premise that reads like a ransom note cut from other mediocre film summaries. This is the effort of four (yup, one, two three, and four) screenwriters who must be convinced you’ve never seen a movie before.
David Dobkin’s direction is wildly inconsistent in every facet of production. Hop scotching from serio-dramedy to procedural to stark realism, none of these concepts are allowed to flourish in the face of such tonal inconsistency. Dobkin will give some moments the soft lens treatment and then counter with a scene where Dax Shepard blows chunks. No innuendo here, we get the full spray multiple times. This isn’t to say these things can’t be in the same film, but there was never solidified feeling enough to prop up these varied elements. Instead, The Judge is cluttered and uneven, but this hackneyed monster does shamble into a fine moment or two.
After testing you for 25 straight minutes, the film’s central arc, a murder mystery, emerges with some vigor. There are few pleasant moments with Downey and Emma Trembaly, the actress cast as Palmer's (precocious, duh) daughter Lauren. Dax Shepherd brings some levity, there are a few Downey/Duval sparks sprayed from the screen, and we're even treated to a Billy Bob Thornton sighting. But The Judge has one superb moment all to itself. As unflinching a portrayal of an ill parent as I’ve seen, an authentic experience works its way onto the screen. It’s only a moment, but it was honest, a trait conspicuously missing from the film.
There is some talk of legacies in The Judge. Duval’s is intact and Downey still has some crowning achievements in store for us, I’m sure of it. But the question of a Downey in full in a post Iron Man world is growing hazy. Since he donned the candy chrome super suit, his non-Marvel Universe films have been forgettable at best, and detestable at worst. It's tricky to navigate the waters away from and icon, but Downey's biggest Iron Man asset was he was only having to play himself.
Where I once adored his films for being an emblem of exactly where Downey was at that exact moment in his life, perhaps the dirty secret is he can't play anyone but himself. And maybe it's just me, but I don't need another film about rich, attractive assholes learning trite lessons. Because if the Downey as Downey theory holds, the lessons become interchangeable, and the rich asshole emerges as the legacy.
—Monte Monreal
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