Best known so far for his punchy and snide directorial debut, The Opposite of Sex, Roos approaches Bounce like a man with a mission--mainly, to prove that his heart pumps more than amusing black gunk. So it's commendable that he has sloughed off the wicked worldview that informed his previous work to venture boldly into more conventional territory. The problem is that he has fallen directly into the most obvious of sophomore slumps, allowing his keen wit and intimate observations to be corrupted by a rather forced sense of sincerity. As he brings his screenplay only halfway to life, it's easy to wonder whether the good folks at Miramax simply dusted off this competent but unremarkable script as a convenient vehicle for Affleck and Paltrow, who have already met their quota of romantic leads with the likes of Chasing Amy and Sliding Doors, thank you very much.
Following an ethereal, cloud-bound title sequence, the story opens in Chicago, as the big-mouthed, hot-shot ad executive Buddy Amaral (Affleck) speeds through the snow to O'Hare Airport after closing a lucrative deal with Infinity Airlines. In the manner of business travelers everywhere, he immediately makes friends with everyone he encounters, settling down in the airport bar with a zestful agent named Mimi Praeger (Natasha Henstridge) and a floundering playwright named Greg Janello (Tony Goldwyn). Once Greg gamely suffers Buddy's merciless frat-boy barbs--his Whitman-inspired play is eviscerated by a dork who deems theater useless in our cinematic age--it becomes clear that he's a decent, friendly family man, and thus marked for death. As the newfound pals assess the sociological value of both Mimi ("You gotta love this--she's in organ development!") and Buddy ("Advertising--it's like agenting, without the heart."), the flurries outside start whipping into a blizzard, and Buddy convinces a flirty, irritable airline attendant called Janice (Jennifer Grey) to let Greg fly home to L.A. in his place. One saccharine beam from Mimi ensures that two pulses are about to quicken, while one is about to stop cold.
After some nasty business involving Affleck in bed and a massive fireball slamming into Kansas, the repercussions of Buddy's libidinous choice begin to hit. Not only is he forced to shoulder the burden of wrenching guilt (which closely resembles smirking, until the suspension of disbelief kicks in), but his moment of lust has also cost him the faith of his stern business partner, Jim Willer (Joe Morton). Mocking the combined forces of his agency and the airline--who have taken on the vulgar task of spinning the crash into a commercially exploitative eulogy of the victims--Buddy dives straight into the bottle and winds up imprisoned in a Palm Springs detox center for several months. This is convenient, specifically because it allows Greg's downtrodden widow, Abby (Paltrow), time to grieve and get hungry for love again.
Much like the campaigns Buddy finds increasingly offensive along his road to recovery, Bounce reeks of board meetings, at which the compassionate, humanitarian qualities of this tandem showcase were no doubt carved and contoured. Once we trudge through some cute antics--involving Abby's middlebrow Realtor status, her wacky rottweiler (which, miraculously, devours neither of her children), and the hopeful Buddy driving out to her home in the San Fernando Valley to check on her, only to find himself instantly head-over-heels in love--the major conflict strikes: He knows who she is, but she thinks he's simply a benevolent, wealthy stranger. How is he going to tell her? Will she still love him? And, above all, why does she live in the Brady Bunch's old house? Oh well, as the classic-rock tune goes, if you can't be with the one you love, love the one who's duping you big-time.
Named after a philosophical pep talk from Abby's culturally challenged mother (Caroline Aaron), Bounce is supposedly about rebounding after horror and hardship, but it's really just a simple tale of rabid opportunism.
It's pretty clear why the leads were attracted to the project--he gets to play a selfish prick learning to open his heart; she gets to cry and shake--but their work here is miles away from convincing. (Director Roos has said of Paltrow that "she has a face like a sheet of paper," intended as praise, but quite open to interpretation.) Apart from pheromones, these two have no solid reason to come together, let alone to endure deceit and manipulation en route to everlasting happiness. As far as jet-crash romances go, it surpasses the slow ride to nowhere of Random Hearts, but, by playing the love as a given, the movie could hardly be called Fearless. If only Roos could have taken his own advice, that an act "isn't brave if you're not scared," the story could have surprised us. Instead, we're treated to relentless posturing and bathos better left in an acting workshop.