Film Reviews

Feel the force

This is the first thing you notice about John Travolta as he stands before you, extending his hand in welcome: He does not look at all like a Movie Star. At 45, he seems a bit softer and a tad shorter than he did even on television, where the small screen never could contain him. The stubby beginnings of a goatee cover his fist of a chin, and his thick hair, now shorn short in a Caesar, lies flat on his head. Dressed in a dark brown suit, he looks like a banker on holiday, spending his time off like any well-monied man trapped in Irving on a Friday afternoon -- killing time at the Four Seasons Resort and Hotel, waiting perhaps for a tee time.

It isn't until he fixes his eyes upon you -- those famous, oddly serene blue eyes -- that it even dawns on you that this is one of the most recognized men in the world. But even then, Travolta goes out of his way to make sure he's not the focus of attention in any room he's in, even when there are just two of you in a hotel suite. All that's been written about him over the years seems true and then some: The man is so sincere you might well mistake his genuineness for phoniness. This, it has long been said, is his shtick.

He grins and takes a seat on a pink couch, crosses his legs, rests his head on his left hand, and leans in close to his interrogator, who sits only a few inches away. Travolta, in town ostensibly to promote his new movie The General's Daughter, prefers instead to make affable conversation. This, despite the fact that in 15 minutes, his publicist will come in here and end this interview because of a tight, revolving-door media schedule.

"You're a Texan, aren't you?" Travolta asks.

"Yes," I tell him. "I was actually born in Dallas."

"I could tell," he says, his smile broadening. I tell him I've lived on a cattle ranch for the past two years. "Then you're a cowboy," he says, his voice somewhere between a raspy murmur and a hushed whisper.

"But I've since moved back into town."

"Then that would make you an urban cowboy," he offers, clearly pleased with his reference.

And so it goes for a few more minutes, small talk with a celebrity -- about wives and children, about flying and friends -- that suddenly renders the whole experience a bit surreal; it's movie-plug interview as hey-buddy instant friendship. Only in a few minutes, it will all get a bit weird.

Before that, however, there is business to tend to -- promoting The General's Daughter, in which Travolta portrays an Army investigator, Paul Brenner, who's looking into the apparent rape and murder of Captain Elisabeth Campbell (Leslie Stefanson), who is, well, the general's daughter. The film, based on Nelson DeMille's 1992 novel, is a rather pedestrian whodunit masquerading as a High-Minded Political Statement about the treatment of women in the military. The only problem is, director Simon West (who crashed and burned in his debut, Con Air) seems more interested in showing Stefanson, spread-eagled and tied to the ground with rope and tent stakes, in various states of duress: She's either dead, near death, or being raped -- and always nude.

Turns out the general's little girl was something of a kinky sex addict with a preference for bondage, the reasons for which lie at the heart of the film's "mystery." And, of course, everyone's a suspect: the colonel who works as her father's faithful assistant (Clarence Williams III); the colonel who was Elisabeth's boss and possible lover (James Woods); the military cop with all the answers (Timothy Hutton); and even Elisabeth's old man himself (James Cromwell, reprising his L.A. Confidential sleaze). It's up to Brenner to find out the truth behind the slaying -- and decide if he's going to keep the whole thing under wraps like a good military boy, or make the mess public for all the civilians to see.

It should be said that Travolta delivers a wonderful performance that's lost in a mediocre -- and, at times, rather misogynistic and homophobic -- film. Brenner should have been just another bland good guy; DeMille originally wrote Brenner as "a wisecracking and slightly smart-assed Irish-American from South Boston," and the author always imagined Bruce Willis in the role. But Travolta, perhaps the most keen and meditative American actor to emerge from the 1970s, doesn't let the author or director do him in.

He begins the film as a glib, cold military cop. What's one more dead naked woman to a man who fought in combat? He flirts with his hesitant partner -- and ex-lover -- Sarah Sunhill (Madeline Stowe), and treats the investigation like one lousy joke; he even seems a bit dim. Yet the more he uncovers -- turns out a particular hero from his youth isn't so valorous after all -- the more bitter Brenner becomes, until finally his character nearly collapses beneath the weight of his own acrimony. Too bad The General's Daughter is one of those movies that doesn't make sense until its finale, and even then, you just take it on faith.

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Robert Wilonsky
Contact: Robert Wilonsky