Review: Bobby

Bobby is a Palm Sunday story, about a group of strangers congregating in a place where a Christ-figure is expected to pass through and bless those lucky enough to lay eyes on him. The Christ-figure is Robert Kennedy, former attorney general of the United States and presidential candidate until he was felled by assassin Sirhan Sirhan in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles during a primary stop. As the time of his arrival draws near, the gathered begin to whisper about miracles Bobby will perform if elected, but no one ever delves into specifics about the man. Instead, it's generally accepted that if you are one of the travelers who has made your way to the Ambassador on this night of nights, then you know what he stands for, and no instruction is necessary. In that regard, Bobby is 'Ben & Jerry's presents Grand Hotel'. It's aimed at only two conceivable audiences: over-50, true-believer, 'it ain't fair, John Sinclair' liberals and 80s-movie buffs who will thrill at seeing Emilio Estevez and Demi Moore reunited on screen.

I have to admit, the reunion scene is a doozy and sure to warm the heart cockles of those who are patiently awaiting a two-disc director's cut of Wisdom. Moore and Estevez play a fringe-showbiz couple, he a manager type, she an over-40 singer who is now reduced to playing hotels like the one that is hosting the Kennedy campaign stopover on the night in question. In their one legitimate scene together, Moore staggers from booze and juts her neck out at the pint-sized Estevez like a dominant hen, while he does that move where his small, round-as-nickels eyes seem to come together another inch or two when he's considering how he's going to get the bottle away from her. Other revelers wandering the hotel during the film include Sharon Stone as a hair-dresser in unkind period make-up, Elijah Wood and Lindsay Lohan as a draft dodger and his hot girlfriend, and Christian Slater as a kitchen manager who openly despises the illegal Mexican workers in his kitchen.

The situation of Hispanics during the civil rights movement is a major concern of the film, with lots of rough talk between the kitchen workers like "We're the new niggers" and "Why are you working a double shift? Because you're Mexican." But the film never troubles itself to lay out exactly what it thinks Bobby Kennedy thought, felt or wrote about the issue. There's never any cross-talk about the possibility that a Kennedy victory won't change things for the better, nor is there any point where the historical record is combed for plugs of his accomplishments on that front. Everything is a given, which narrows the extent to which the movie can work on anyone who doesn't enter the theater on exactly the same page as director Estevez, politically. Although, in fairness to the movie, it wouldn't make sense in a Palm Sunday story to have Jesus finally appear in town on his donkey only to be greeted by a bunch of Jerusalemites holding papyrus placards reading "What have you done for us lately, Savior-man?"

The film is lousy with wasted stars. Helen Hunt, Martin Sheen and Laurence Fishburne, among others have hastily-sketched out roles that require them to either come to a big revelation about themselves on cue or arrive at some unearned, teary emotional climax that will allow them to be seen boo-hooing in the film's trailer. To the director's credit, however, the one moment when we need the payoff of seeing a recognizable face is when Sirhan Sirhan comes walking through the hotel's entrance, and that's pulled off nicely. The casting is good enough that it doesn't need to be spelled out that the assassin has arrived. Less exemplary is the casting of Ashton Kutcher as a comedic dope dealer who dresses like a biker dressing like John Lennon and argues with an orange while tripping on LSD. My gripe isn't that Kutcher can't act -- I've never seen him attempt to do it, so I can't make a judgment -- it's that he's genetically incapable of melting into a period piece. His voice has that peculiar register of 21st century L.A.

I like the idea that Estevez hasn't forgotten his old fellow Brat Packers. He should bring more of them along in future films. Also, on the technical front, the film is something to be proud of. The opening scenes are clearly modeled on Robert Altman and Paul Thomas Anderson, with lots of over-the-shoulder cams following people to-and-fro, quickly handing off to someone else and then following that person, and so on. The camera is confident and pushes in wherever it wants. The final scene, in which Irish Jesus finally addresses the crowd is handled with a deft blend of archival footage and acting. It's easy to underestimate the enormous amount of work that goes into a scene like that, and Estevez proves here that he has the chops to helm a 'real movie', so to speak. Whether he has something more interesting (and less predictable) to say remains to be seen. And no matter what your politics are, I'm sure you'll agree that this should be his last film that resorts to jokes about 'chads.'