"Maximum Risk," a humorless but nicely filmed action movie, is probably the high point of Jean-Claude Van Damme's career thus far. As expected, the film fails to achieve the level of depth and relevance that it clearly intends to reach, but it does make for an exciting vehicle for Van Damme.
The story details the quest of Alain Moreau (Van Damme), a former French soldier who finds his double dead on the streets of his small hometown in Southern France. Afterward, Moreau's mother reveals that he was born with a twin who was put up for adoption shortly after birth.
Director Ringo Lam tries to hit the audience over the head with the film's thematic content. He wants us to see his bare-fisted, bare-breasted, shoot-em-up as a subtle exploration of notions of identity, separation and loss. Nice try.
Moreau's unauthorized investigation of his brother's death takes him to New York's Little Odessa where it turns out his twin, Mikhail, grew up in a family of Russian immigrants and became ensconced in the Russian mob. Apparently, Mikhail's conscience got the best of him, and he was attempting to extricate himself from the mob and return to the mother and brother he had never met.
Of course, when Moreau arrives in Little Odessa, he is mistaken for Mikhail and is embedded in all of Mikhail's personal problems and strained relationships. These relationships include a romantic one with the lovely Alex, played by Natasha Henstridge. (No, she doesn't pierce her tongue through the back of anyone's neck in this one.)
Together, Moreau and Alex move toward the fateful dénouement where they're both alive, the bad guys have all died painful deaths and there are millions of dollars just waiting to be spent.
Van Damme's acting has shown remarkably little improvement over the course of his nine or 10 films. He sports this dull, catatonic stare that I guess he thinks passes for depth. Otherwise, he only strikes one as a conscious, animate being when he is fighting.
As for Natasha Henstridge, the jury is still out. While you can detect a glimmer of talent, if Henstridge doesn't get offered better roles, the alien bit may start to look pretty good by comparison.
Another problem, apart from the acting, is the film's ridiculous length. Clocking in at around two hours, the breakneck pace of the action sequences is interrupted so that we can feel Moreau's pain. Judging from the snickers in the audience, this is not what people pay $6.50 to see.
Nonetheless, this is a discernible pattern in Van Damme's work. The filmmakers are motivated by the need to present Van Damme as more than a brutal killing machine. He is a sensitive, post-feminist man. He kills because he has a "job to do" or a "score to settle," not out of some pathological proclivity.
Probably the greatest virtue of "Maximum Risk" is the fine photography of Alexander Gruszynski. He gives the urban visuals a rich, layered look and even makes Van Damme's physiognomy a worn, battered and interesting surface. It's possible, though, that I'm giving Gruszynski too much credit, as there are obviously built-in advantages to filming in such photogenic locations as the south of France and New York City.
"Nikolai, if you steal my towel I'll kick your derriere."