Summary:

FBI profiler Terry McCaleb (Clint Eastwood) suffers a heart attack while in foot pursuit of a mass murderer.  Flash forward two years and he has just undergone a heart transplant when he is visited by Graciella Rivers (Wanda de Jesús) and asked to help solve her sister’s murder.  She presents him with a compelling reason for coming out of his medically mandated retirement.  With the aid of his slacker neighbor, Buddy Noone (Jeff Daniels), McCaleb is on the case, even if it costs him his health and, ultimately, his life.

Steve says:

BLOOD WORK needs SCRIPT WORK!  Brian Helgeland’s adaptation of L.A. Times crime reporter-turned-novelist Michael Connelly’s book takes what is essentially a crackling good mystery and gets rid of anything remotely resembling human drama, reducing 80% of the film to the boring and tedious, step-by-step solving of the mystery.  I would have expected better from the screenwriter of L.A. CONFIDENTIAL, one of the best cop movies ever.  But Helgeland’s missteps in the writing are not aided at all by Eastwood’s languorous direction.   Just about every scene in the movie goes on a little toooooo looooooong...or sometimes a lot too long.  Some judicious pruning of the script and additional work in the editing room would have helped, but ultimately, BLOOD WORK is a by-the-numbers whodunit that failed to hold my interest beyond the half-way point.   Also, his usual attention to detail has failed Eastwood this time out, with such glaring errors as having his character chasing a known serial killer without even drawing his weapon.

While Eastwood, to his credit, has, in his most recent films, freely acknowledged the fact that he’s getting to be an old fart, it is becoming increasingly evident that he is too old to be playing the same tough guy roles that he’s best known for. While the heart transplant angle affords him the opportunity to slow things down a bit, Eastwood can’t resist doing a fast tuck and roll out of the way of a car that’s trying to run him down.  And he comes up from it without even having to catch his breath.  Not bad for a guy in his 70’s who’s two months out of major transplant surgery.   And his ultra-craggy visage makes Dick Tracy's Pruneface look like Haley Joel Osment.  Perhaps it’s time for Clint Eastwood to hang up his acting spurs and settle for a career as an Academy Award-winning director.  But if his movies are going to be at the pace of a turtle race, he should stick to material like his earlier success, THE BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY.

The film’s bright spot is Wanda de Jesús, who has done yeoman service in smaller roles in films such as THE INSIDER and FLAWLESS.   In BLOOD WORK, Eastwood gives her a crack at being a leading lady and de Jesús acquits herself admirably.  Indeed, Eastwood shoots her like a star, with her initial shot being a turn to camera in extreme close-up.  It’s the kind of shot usually used to introduce Julia Roberts or Cameron Diaz -- a “movie star shot.”  Indeed, de Jesús’s role would have been a star-maker if BLOOD WORK had been a better movie.  But perhaps perceptive casting directors will pick up on her electric screen presence here and put her into a role that will pay bigger dividends.

Comic Paul Rodriguez has some nice moments as LAPD Detective Ronaldo Arrango, but he’s written as a one-note character.   He doesn’t like Eastwood’s character.  We get it.  And we get it again.  And again.

Jeff Daniels has a nice turn as McCaleb’s next door neighbor, a marina-dwelling slacker with a few secrets of his own.

The story, particularly with its heart transplant angle, provides numerous opportunities to portray honest human emotion, almost none of which are realized in the film.  But that isn’t Eastwood’s turf.  We’ve always known him as the stoic Man with No Name or the stoic Dirty Harry or the stoic anyone-else-he-has-played.  

BLOOD WORK is the kind of film that I usually classify as “WFHV” (Wait For Home Video).

 

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Patty says:

Yawn.

This film needed a transplant.  Eastwood has always been a little like listening to your little darling’s piano practice.  He gets old.  And man, is he old.  The thing that was the most striking reminder that the man is in his 70s is his voice.  He sounds like a sober version of Janis Joplin or maybe Bill Clinton when he suffered from laryngitis (Hillary must like a screamer).  It was distracting.  I spent most of the movie suppressing the urge to clear my throat.  Most aging film stars of Eastwood’s magnitude have the good sense to stay away from action roles.  Not only does Eastwood insist on playing a seventy-something year old cop who dodges cars and has hot sex with Wanda de Jesús, he attempts it as a guy who just had a heart transplant.  Sheesh.  Most post-transplant old guys would consider looking at Wanda de Jesús naked a triumph in itself.  Sorry Clint, I just ain’t buyin’ it.

Wanda de Jesús is hot.  Any gal who can share a life with Jimmy Smits is my kind of woman.  She is also a wonderful actor.  When Wanda is on the screen she commands the attention of the audience.  It’s too bad that she didn’t have a decent script to work with in this film.  For most of the movie, her dialogue created this shrewish persona that made her unlikable.  She didn’t seem to connect with Eastwood’s character at all. There is no reason for them to interact at an emotional level.  I didn’t buy that Eastwood’s character gave her any motivation to become involved with him emotionally.  Without that relationship cornerstone, the film just didn’t work.  As a matter of fact, all the characters in the film seemed disjointed from one another.

I liked Jeff Daniels’s portrayal of the next door neighbor in BLOOD WORK.  Like de Jesús, his talent transcended the constraints of the lackluster script.  There was no chemistry between any of the characters in this film.  Of course, it was also an action film with no action; a thriller with no thrills.  There was a sex scene with no sex.  BLOOD WORK was a whodunit, but we don’t really care who did.  

I’ll give you 2 kernels for Wanda de Jesús’ performance and a half for Eastwood having the guts to bare his septuagenarian chest.  There aren’t many 72-year-old guys who don’t look like they need a training bra.

 

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