Sabotage: Ludicrous testosterone-fueled tale

CEBU, Philippines - Here’s a challenge: Sit down at the end of “Sabotage” and try to make sense out of the confused plot of this thrill-deprived action thriller. No, wait, that would be a waste of time. Writer-director David Ayer’s “End of Watch” was everything a gripping cop drama should be – lean and sinewy, jittery and emotionally charged; it wasn’t subtle but it had actual characters, terrific actors and authentic grit. However, his repellent new movie is its predecessor’s posturing, pornographically violent opposite.

A ludicrous testosterone-fueled tale of a rogue undercover DEA task force, “Sabotage” aims to shape a post-political Arnold Schwarzenegger into an iconic take-no-prisoners federal agent hell-bent on vengeance.

We first encounter his character, John “Breacher” Wharton, weeping over footage of a woman being brutally tortured. As the film progresses, we learn the backstory behind that tape and the root of Breacher’s brooding intensity. But Schwarzenegger doesn’t really do “inner life.” He’s all surface. And when he’s not encouraged to slip in a wink to remind us that he’s in on the joke, things can get pretty wooden.

If the miscalculation of putting Ahh-nold in a grim Clint Eastwood/Charles Bronson/John Wayne rough-justice role were the only problem, “Sabotage” might not be such a numbing bore. It has elements that could even be entertaining had they been in a less flimsy story context.

Among them is Joe Manganiello as Joe “Grinder” Phillips, who has white-rapper cornrows and tattooed arms so huge that no clothing can cover them. Tossing off lines like “What the hell are we doin’ here? We could be drinkin’ beers and throwin’ dollars at somethin’ naked,” or “Ammo’s cheap, my life ain’t,” he hints at what this movie could have been with a sense of humor. Likewise Mireille Enos. As the only woman in the elite squad, Lizzy sadly doesn’t get a cool nickname like everyone else.

The film fails spectacularly in the central idea that Breacher and his fearless fighting machines are a dysfunctional family of renegades in which loyalties run deep and betrayals even deeper. Really, they are just a bunch of interchangeable muscle-heads who share a taste for fart humor, strip clubs and boozing in an ensemble that has no cohesion.

The trouble starts when the assault team raids a drug cartel party in an operation that turns out to be a cover for their theft of a cool $10 million. When the cash goes missing, an internal affairs investigation gets them suspended just long enough for their skills to turn rusty. But when the team is reassembled, its members start turning up dead, in gruesome statement hits that seem to carry a barbaric cartel signature.

Detective Caroline Brentwood (Olivia Williams) investigates the killings. She gets personally involved in a way that comes out of nowhere and disappears just as quickly, adding nothing to the convoluted plotting.

Williams’ main purpose in the movie seems to be trying out an American accent so shaky it makes Sam Worthington’s sound passable. He plays James “Monster” Murray, Lizzy’s husband and fellow thug, distinguishable by his shaved head and braided goatee, if not much else.

Also on the team are Eddie “Neck” Jordan (Josh Holloway), Julius “Sugar” Edmonds (Terrence Howard), Tom “Pyro” Roberts (Max Martini) and Bryce “Tripod” McNeely (Kevin Vance). It’s a bad sign when you spend more time wondering about the origins of those names than focusing on what they’re up to. As their number dwindles with each shower of bullets or elaborate disembowelment, suspicion shifts to within the group.

Late in the movie, Caroline mentions Georgia, which is the first clue as to where it’s all going down. Whether the action is in Atlanta or Juarez, there’s zero sense of place to distract from the feebleness of the story. Considering that Ayer’s fascination with morally complicated law enforcers dates back to his screenplay for “Training Day,” the generic characters here, and the pedestrian blurring of  the good guy-bad guy line are kind of sad. And the messy violence, rather than having something to say about the war on drugs and its dehumanizing effect on those who fight it, is merely deadening.

As for the reinvention of Schwarzenegger’s screen persona that Ayer had promised, it’s always a kick to watch the mountain of gristle narrow his gaze as he locks and loads. But even the metal-made Terminator had more heart. (hollywoodreporter.com) (FREEMAN)