Screenwriter David Sumner (James Marsden) movies with actress wife Amy (Kate Bosworth) to the latter's hometown of Blackwater, Mississippi. While writing a World War II epic, David hires contractor Charlie (Alexander Skarsgard) to refurbish his house. Charlie's a charming roughneck who happens to be Amy's old flame. David's haughtiness alienates Charlie and his friends, while Amy's disgusted by his unwillingness to stand up for her. Then David encounters Jeffrey (Dominic Purcell), a local simpleton whose feelings for an underage cheerleader (Willow Holland) has tragic consequences. Said cheerleader's father (James Woods) organizes a lynch mob and... erm, haven't you seen the original?
The 1971 Straw Dogs still generates passionate plaudits and intense hatred. Its defenders (myself included) celebrate Peckinpah's film as an intense, gripping allegory of man's propensity for violence. Critics blast it as an exploitative gore fest whose visceral thrills undercut the point. That's not even touching the debates over misogyny (or worse) generating from its portrayal of Amy, especially the unnerving rape scene. Few films are as radically polarizing.
Any classic remake also suffers not by direct comparison to the original but its influence. Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho has been imitated so many times that Gus Van Sant's "shot-for-shot" remake feels like superfluous onanism. Even John Carter, not exactly a remake, perversely suffers from the original Edgar Rice Burroughs stories inspiring Star Wars, Avatar and a million lesser sci-fi flicks. Thus with Straw Dogs: what shocked in 1971 falls just this side of mundane today, subsumed by a million lesser movies. Familiar title aside, it feels like just another thriller.
Lurie does himself no favors, either, by gorging on cliche and condescension. Relocating from Cornwall to Mississippi allows Lurie to play on Deep South stereotypes propagated by everything from Deliverance to Squidbillies. Everyone in Blackwater has nothing better to do than watch TV, drink booze and attend football games. That most of them turn out to be violent, rapacious louts won't shock anyone: hasn't Hollywood been teaching this lesson for over a century? The friendly black Sheriff (Laz Alonso) in an otherwise all-white town further points up Lurie's simplistic worldview.
Indeed, making the hero a screenwriter besieged by flyover yokels feels like some sick Hollywood joke. In fairness, Lurie probably meant David to be an unlikeable antihero, but the unpleasant subtext lingers. Early on, David tells a redneck slob that he writes films the redneck wouldn't recognize, as if Southerners consider war movies as inscrutable as Satantango. Then he walks out on a church sermon and mocks Charlie's Christianity. But the capper comes when David explicitly explains the title for us dummies in the audience. After this, it feels less like David's a smug jackass than the director is.
The story follows Peckinpah closely, touching all the plot points, character relations and cat mutilation. But everything's inexplicably neutered. This Amy is more assertive and self-reliant, making her taunting Charlie and Co. more inexplicable. The rape scene's still here - shorn of violence, nudity or visceral impact. So why bother? As if justifying his aforementioned arrogance, Lurie indulges in laughable montages (the rape intercut with David shooting a deer! Rapping hammer counterpointed with rapping keyboard!) that play like Jay Sherman's student film. The climactic violence is as nasty as ever, but without credible setup it's just another action scene.
The actors seem out of sync with the material. James Marsden smartly plays up David's obnoxious side, but his conversion to action hero isn't especially credible. Kate Bosworth struggles with a character torn between Susan George's skanky original and PC feminism. Alexander Skarsgard plays Charlie as a low-key, likeable guy who inexplicably becomes a predator. Save James Woods, embarrassing as a hambone hick, everyone gives performances that are professionally fine, but dramatically off-key.
As remakes go, Straw Dogs isn't bad enough to be insulting like Van Sant's Psycho or the 2002 Four Feathers. It's disposable junk, mindlessly killing two hours before you filter it out of your brain and move on to something more substantial.
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