The Punisher Movie Review

Call The Punisher what you will—and it richly deserves most of it—sadistic, uneven, misanthropic, homophobic, homoerotic, and wooden but it's inventively sadistic, uneven, misanthropic, homophobic, homoerotic, and wooden.

Like a bumpy ride in the back of a four-wheeling truck the film knocks you about. When it catches air, which is rare, it gets your heart pounding. But just as soon after that it smashes your head into the cab of the truck-- which smarts--and makes you wonder why you got in in the first place.

Harking back to the late Charles Bronson's Death Wish series, Punisher delights in giving bad guys their comeuppance at the hands of a sturdy good guy. And boy, do they have it coming.

Here the good guy is undercover agent Frank Castle, played by Thomas Jane, whoops, strike that, the press has been asked to refer to him now as TOM JANE, a man who loses his wife and child to the brutal thugs of Howard Saint (played by John Travolta). Saint is a money-launderer/banker who is seeking revenge against Castle as he led the sting operation that inadvertently killed Saint's son. Saint has his men gun down Castle's entire family, including the aforementioned wife (Samantha Mathis, good to see you back, but yeeesssh!) and young son.

Castle (played by SHIRTLESS TOM JANE) becomes the Punisher, meting out brutal vengeance against Saint and his cronies, including his longtime confidant, Quentin Glass (Will Patton, good as usual) and Saint's blousy wife, Livia (Laura Harring, bad as usual).

The first third of the film takes itself much too seriously and Jane has to glower with intent, deftly tossing around firearms with Dad (Roy Scheider, on vacation) after watching Mom get shot at the big family get-together. Much of SHIRTLESS TOM JANE's initial simmering just induces snickers. He's not helped by the disastrous musical cues by Carlo Silioto that appear to be selections from "T.V. Guide's Greatest Hits." One half expects Eric Roberts to come around the corner at any second.

The second act improves mightily, however, much to the surprise of this reviewer. It's chugging along enjoyably until another sadistic torture episode (this one dealing with facial piercings) reminds you not to get to chummy with the film; "Don't' trust me; I'm really not very good and going to disappoint you," it seems to say.

The third act is much sneakier and cleaner than expected and the film, writer/director Jonathan Hensleigh, borrowing liberally from disparate betters like Mad Max and The Cowboys, ends with a manly sneer and bitter resolve. And with Tom Jane's shirt off, let's not forget about that.