In "The Tourist," Johnny Depp is asked to play a bland American everyman, in the fashion of Jimmy Stewart in "The Man Who Knew Too Much." That's a bit like asking Michael Bolton to play death metal or Jackson Pollock to paint inside the lines. Depp adopts an affected, unplaceable accent and contorts his face into whimsical-weirdo expressions.
It's a spectacularly misconceived performance, and what's remarkable about "The Tourist" is that Depp's not even the worst thing about the movie. That honor goes to Angelina Jolie, who adopts her own affected accent (a kind of Madonna-ese British) and struts through the proceedings with an imperious stare. Her Elise Clifton-Ward is supposed to be a madly romantic woman who falls in love all the time, but clearly the only one Jolie is in love with here is herself.
Directed by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, "The Tourist" illustrates what happens when you cast two giant, self-orbiting stars and then are either too intimidated or too confused to direct them. It also illustrates what happens when you compound a bad idea with poorly telegraphed twists and no dramatic tension whatsoever.
The story is an increasingly silly gloss on one of Hitchcock's "wrong man" thrillers: Elise is wanted for her connection to a mysterious thief named Alexander Pierce. On a train to Venice, she chooses an American tourist -- Depp's Frank Tupelo -- and fools her pursuers into thinking he's Pierce. The movie sputters to a conclusion so predictable you first feel embarrassed for all involved, until your embarrassment turns to indignation: How stupid does Hollywood believe audiences to be if they think they can put a turkey like "The Tourist" over on us?
