Mike Terry (Chiwetel Ejiofor, left)

Review

Redbelt

by Sean Burns

The chest-thumping, manly-man mannerisms of David Mamet have always teetered on the brink of self-parody. (I have a theory that his sentences are so short because he types them with his balls.)

After three decades of brilliant stage plays and somewhat less successful forays into cinema, Mamet’s bookworm machismo has become instantly recognizable. There’s the staccato dialogue, devoid of contractions but packed with wildly inventive profanities, strategically flat line readings, musically timed pregnant pauses, and—most important—this is a man’s man’s world, baby, full of duplicitous women and cold-blooded con artists, where everybody’s out only for himself.

In recent years Mamet’s screen work has taken a significant uptick as he’s set about the interesting task of tackling tried and true Hollywood genres, then wrestling them into what we’d expect from David Mamet movies.

Seven years ago his deliciously entertaining Heist upended the modern caper flick, while in 2004 his woefully underrated Spartan turned out to be a uniquely stripped-down and ruthless little spin around action-movie archetypes.

With his well-meaning if somewhat bonkers Redbelt, Mamet takes on the martial arts flick. And he loses.

The fantastic Chiwetel Ejiofor stars as Mike Terry, flat-broke proprietor of a jujutsu academy, and walking embodiment of every masculine ideal Mamet holds dear. Mike lives by a strict ascetic code summed up in punchy aphorisms like “competition is weakness” and “improve the position.”

Perhaps only a performer with Ejiofor’s killer combination of exterior stillness and crackling inner life could bring off such a goofy, messianic caricature, but he keeps the audience’s eye-rolling at bay for much longer than one might expect possible.

We’re told that “boxing is as dead as Woodrow Wilson,” and mixed martial arts competitions are the future. But meet the new boss, same as the old boss, as Redbelt depicts the new sport as already overrun with so many hustlers, fixers, phony rivalries and money-grubbing pay-per-view deals that Don King would be envious.

Though something of a godhead in the mixed martial arts community, our steadfast philosopher-king Mike Terry refuses to fight for money, viewing such spectacles as corrupting to the ideals and disciplines he holds precious.

Any discussion of corruption in a Mamet movie must eventually include his favorite whipping boy and default symbol for all that is rank and impure in this world: yup, Hollywood.

A surprisingly half-decent Tim Allen shows up as a spoiled movie star. A boozy, past-his-prime action hero, he’s a fake tough guy who picks a bar fight in the wrong part of town. It’s only after bystander Mike rescues him from seeing that multimillion-dollar smile kicked out of his face that a web of moneyed seduction is spun.

Calling what follows “implausible” would be generous, as Mamet half-asses his way through an elaborate maze of double-crosses and sneaky twists that don’t hold up to the slightest bit of logistical scrutiny. His regular cast members Joe Mantegna, Ricky Jay, David Paymer and Rebecca Pidgeon all turn up to run through their time-honored riffs of smiling mendacity, but the con games feel stale and rehashed, the dialogue practically mothballed.

The needlessly convoluted plotline sends Mike chasing down a few blind alleys involving Emily Mortimer’s drug-addled attorney and Max Martini’s unusually dedicated disciple, so that by the time Redbelt eventually ends up exactly where you knew it was going all along, you’re kind of stunned that it took so long to get there.

The staging of the fights is problematic at best, for this much vaunted mixed martial arts spectacle looks more like a couple of guys falling on the ground in headlocks, which is hardly thrilling. Meanwhile, there’s so much hushed talk and reverent speechifying about Mike Terry’s “purity,” it’s tempting to read the movie as some sort of goof.

Alas, Mamet’s deadly serious, and hopelessly devoted to his monkish hero, fending off avarice and temptation, living by ancient principles in a modern, messy world. In many ways Redbelt feels like Jim Jarmusch’s Ghost Dog, only without the jokes.