Bulletproof Monk

So goofy it borders on camp, Bulletproof Monk is entertaining for all the wrong reasons. There are no remarkable action set-pieces, just a handful of risible wire stunts, and the plot is so convoluted that the Russian Mafia and an Anglophonic crime lord named Mr. Funktastic are minor players. Hong Kong’s answer to Cary Grant, Chow Yun-Fat, skulks around, smiling beatifically and dispensing oblique nuggets of wisdom while the score announces the presence of an Asian with noisome pizzicato. (If one dictum – "Annoying others means you are wise" – is true, the filmmakers are very wise indeed.) Meanwhile, director Hunter, a music-video whiz making his feature debut, whips the camera around dramatically and throws in cheesy bullet-time effects. He’s torn between the gritty, greasy, mean-streets realism of an urban B-movie fight film and the high-concept hokum of a comic-book movie (the film’s source is, in fact, a graphic novel). The audience can’t help but guffaw when a character jumps between the two milieus – as when a Manhattan museum space abruptly gives way to the subterranean chamber where a uniformed, decrepit Nazi (Roden, set to 11) keeps his shiny brain-shriveling torture machine hidden amid the smoke-machine haze and kinky bijoux of a Nine Inch Nails video. One secret chamber has its own secret chamber! When he’s not making inane pronouncements ("The air – you can’t see it, but it fills your lungs"), Chow plays straight man to Scott admirably enough. Periodically, Hunter holds the camera still, and the two are able to display a sort of chemistry, no less. Hollywood still has no idea what to do with Chow, but his perpetual expression of bemused indulgence suggests his origins as a comic actor. Die-hard fans should also be advised that for one brief, shining moment, Chow stands on top of a car with his celebrated "double guns" drawn and his trenchcoat billowing photogenically in the wind. It’s nice. And then it’s back to jackbooted kung-fu war criminals and catsuited henchwomen. Not that that’s a bad thing. Bulletproof Monk would probably make a nice rental on a dull evening, with some kind of salty snack and a drinking-game accompaniment. (Drink whenever Scott cries, "Oh, shit!") Just don’t kid yourself. John Woo and Terence Chang may be credited as producers, but Bulletproof Monk is far from the skillfully shot, polished actioners for which they’re famous.