Last night, I watched the recent Kevin Costner flick, Three Days to Kill. It’s the story of a CIA lifer with a broken family who may be dying of cancer, but can earn a chance to try an experimental cure for the proverbial one last job.
Objections? The movie is an oddall mix of violence, humor, and emotion, and it certainly stretches credulity that the perpetually coughing assassin could shift gears from sickbed to superman and back and still be virtually unstoppable. The agent in charge of this final job (three days to find and eliminate a terrorist and his henchmen in Paris, hence the title) is a young woman who inexplicably goes from a somewhat bookish professional in the opening scene to a bleach-blonde (and later raven-haired), chain-smoking (that’s just mean, given Costner’s condition) femme fatale, raising questions about her allegiances, motivations, and the contents of the mystery drug she’s giving him as a possible cure. The drug accelerates his heart rate (bad in his line of work) and causes mild hallucinations (worse) — but thankfully, alcohol will take the edge off (keeps getting better). To make things weirder, the gal insists upon dressing provocatively and meeting him in strangely lit rooms where dancers gyrate and smoke swirls…the better to provoke hallucinations and suspicions, I guess. His daughter’s boyfriend, too, is called into question, but in several cases, these were just red herrings. (The actual plot twist did take me by surprise, however — not so the reviewer on Roger Ebert’s site, but I tend to shut down my analytics until after the popcorn-muncher is over.)