March 12, 2004 | Spartan is a nifty, twisty thriller
about the hunt for an abducted First Daughter. And one of the coolest
things about the movie is, nobody ever flat-out says that the abducted
young woman is the First Daughter. Come to think of it, no one
even bothers to explicitly refer to her father as -– well, you know, the
President of the United States.
You rarely get much in the way of exposition or extraneous detail from
writer-director David Mamet, the best Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright
ever to moonlight as a moviemaker. In Spartan , however, Mamet
is even stingier than usual when it comes to supplying context or transition.
Time and again, he simply drops you into the middle of a beautifully
photographed, moodily suspenseful scene, and forces you to figure out
who's who and what's what on your own.
But that's not such a bad thing: If you're intelligent and attentive,
you can follow the storyline with reasonable ease, and perhaps even take
pleasure in Mamet's perverse refusal to underline and italicize every
plot element. Indeed, Spartan actually makes you realize how
frequently more conventional movies bend over backwards to overstate
the obvious. Rest assured, no one here ever says anything like, “My God,
they've kidnapped the President's daughter!” Or, “The FBI, the CIA and
the Secret Service are working together on this!” When it comes to parceling
out key info, or explaining how his protagonist gets from Point A to
Point B, Mamet prefers to show, not tell, with brutally graceful efficiency.
Which is not to say, however, that the dialogue in Spartan isn't
up to the usual standards of Mamet-speak. The argot is instantly recognizable
as the playwright-filmmaker's trademark brand: Ambiguous pronouncements,
darkly comical non sequiturs, angry tirades employed as offensive weapons,
innocuous phrases repeated over and over until they're funny or scary
or a little of both. (To amuse yourself, keep a running tally of just
how many times various characters ask: “Where's the girl?”) There are
slightly fewer four-letter words here than one customarily encounters
in a Mamet scenario. But the verbal interplay crackles with Mamet's usual
mix of sardonic wit and show-offy aggression.
I can't tell you who's talking, but here's
one of my favorite exchanges: “Did
you burn me?” “I can't say I did.” “Are you willing to prove it?” “Well,
the Lord hates a coward.”
Here's another: “Are you ready?” “Do you want to gossip, or do you want
to shoot somebody?” Quentin Tarantino, eat your heart out.
If I appear to be avoiding any discussion of plot specifics, that's
only because I am. Spartan percolates with enough fake-outs,
false clues, double whammies and triple-crosses to flummox even the cagey
con artists and crafty career criminals who prowled through such earlier
Mamet films as Heist, House of Games and The
Spanish Prisoner. But there's no way to provide a detailed synopsis
without running the risk of spoiling the nasty surprises that Mamet wants
to spring.
Here's all you really need to know: Special Ops officer Robert Scott
(a well-cast Val Kilmer) is called in when the President's daughter is
snatched from her Harvard dorm room. Maybe she was grabbed by white slavers
who don't know who she is (and likely will kill her if they discover
her identity). On the other hand, maybe something else happened. Maybe
Scott should trust his superiors (William H. Macy, Ed O'Neill) and suspect
his new partner (Derek Luke). Or vice versa. Or maybe he should trust nobody.
In any event, Scott - – like some steadfast Spartan warrior of centuries
ago –- has to perform solo while completing his mission. He vows that
he will find the girl, or die trying. Maybe he'll do both.