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We can run, we can hide, we can even try switching theaters, but there's just no escaping that pesky Gene Hackman. He starred in The Conversation, he is ubiquitous, and revere him we must -- virtually every single time we go to the movies. (Robyn Hitchcock even has a song about this phenomenon, noting that "He's in every film/Sometimes wearing a towel/And if you don't get Gene/You get Andie MacDowell.") Fortunately, much of the time, Hackman is indeed an energetic kick in the pants, and without his game attitude, David Mirkin's Heartbreakers would merely jiggle across the screen and be instantly forgotten.
Of course it's not his movie per se -- he's simply here to symbolize the male libido grown old and yucky. For better and often worse, the show belongs to Sigourney Weaver and Jennifer Love Hewitt -- or more aptly to their plunging necklines -- as they vamp around, seducing men and lightening their bank accounts. Admittedly, potential enjoyment is to be had as long as one expects absolutely none of the characters to behave with a shred of common sense. As Mirkin's sophomore effort, however, this stuff feels peculiarly forced, lacking the blithe cutesiness and slick transitions of his first feature, Romy and Michele's High School Reunion.
Weaver plays Max, a deft con woman who has amassed a small fortune marrying outrageously stupid men, luring them into compromising positions, then collecting her settlement en route to her next victim. As her lawyer (Carrie Fisher in a cameo) craftily presents it, Max has "suffered horrible damage to her psyche.... Oh, and she keeps the Mercedes." Her quarry in this case is the horny chop shop mobster Dean (Ray Liotta), who must have had his brains eaten to fall for Max's celibate ploy all the way to their bridal suite, where she teases him to the brink of madness, then swiftly feigns unconsciousness. Possibly because of his New Jersey heritage (the script's only explanation), the sweet thug buys this act hook, line, and sinker, setting up the sort of logic we're forced to swallow for the rest of the movie.
After the unjustly duped Dean is established and set aside for the film's framing device (which copiously overstays its welcome in the third act), we are properly introduced to the saucy tart who sold him down the river. It turns out that his assistant at the garage -- who's prone to crouching suggestively and inadvertently riding his lap -- is in fact Max's sullen daughter, Page (Love Hewitt). As her mom's partner in crime, Page has learned the arts of the pushup bra and the quick fleece. But while Max tries to protect her charge from the dangers of love ("He'll pull a conceive-and-leave, and then it's my life all over again"), Page aches to quit the crooked life. To illustrate her dedication to a more wholesome path, she flounces around in a foul mood with her boobs hanging out. It's good to have a skill.
Once the film's weird tone is set -- basically ballsy feminism meets Russ Meyer, and it's every bit as jarring as it sounds -- Max convinces Page to join her on one final scam, so off to Florida they go. In essence what unfolds is a shapely take on Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, but instead of heading to the Riviera with zany guys, we head to Palm Beach with grouchy gals. The goal: to catch one last big fish together and make off with everything that isn't nailed down. Enter Hackman as the boorish billionaire tobacco mogul William B. Tensy, a lusty chain smoker teetering on his last three legs -- in short, the perfect target.
Heartbreakers is a fairly scattershot offering, which means there's probably at least one trick in the bag to amuse just about anyone. Occasionally the dialogue crackles ("I am not feeling your butt again, Mother -- we all know how wonderful it is!"), and when it doesn't there's always a dick joke waiting in the wings. But the script -- by Robert Dunn, Paul Guay, and Stephen Mazur -- bears the scars of development hell, amounting mostly to a joyless, soulless romp. It also doesn't help that Weaver and Love Hewitt possess all the spark and comedic timing of borscht.
Speaking of which, Weaver's enthusiastic Russian accent, which figures into her seduction of the decrepit curmudgeon, does provide some fun. In one of the movie's best scenes, the vegetarian Max struggles to maintain her scam in a swank Russian supper club, accidentally ordering steak tartare while enduring the single-entendres of a clever waiter. The movie hits a peak when she's called to the stage and guides the chamber orchestra into an impromptu karaoke adventure.
If only there were more moments of this kind, but Mirkin -- who honed his chops writing for the complex and challenging television series Three's Company -- seems content to vacillate between obvious stabs at mother-daughter angst and cheesy sex gags. In theory, such elements could hold appeal, but Love Hewitt's character is merely rude, charmless, and unlikable, while Weaver seems to be competing in the Streisand Olympics of Awkward Vanity. (If this observation dismays the actress formerly known as Susan, her paycheck for the next Alien sequel should provide adequate comfort.) After a while, a viewer is inclined to suggest that the two simply get -- oh, let's see -- over themselves?
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