‘Constantine’ deserves time in purgatory

Comic books hold some of the strangest and yet most entertaining interpretations of history and Christian theology. Consider the Spear of Destiny, the lance that was used to pierce Jesus’ flesh after his crucifixion and, supposedly, grants mystical powers to its owner. Fans of DC Comics will be quick to mention that their fictional universe takes superstitious legend on as the truth: Hitler used the spear to invade Europe before it was taken from him in 1945, and was subsequently defeated by the Allies.

So take the idea and bring it to the present day. Suppose that the spear is (somehow) found in Mexico, and once a demon grabs hold of the new owner, the holy relic is bound for Los Angeles. If it gets there, then the Son of Satan will be unleashed, and Armageddon will certainly envelope the Earth.

There’s only one man who can stop the Apocalypse: John Constantine (Keanu Reeves), a chain-smoking pseudo-noir exorcist who is caught ’twixt heaven and hell. This premise has the real potential to result in an exciting ride, and the fact that “Constantine” is indeed based on a comic book (“Hellblazer,” produced by Vertigo, the “adult” sublet of DC) should only tempt those expectations even more.

Unfortunately, the movie takes a step too far and crosses a boundary between mystical intrigue and pure hokum.

So what happened? Was there something lost in the translation from comic to film? The Internet Movie Database ( us.imdb.com/ ) states that John Constantine was originally British and was written in the script as such, but once Keanu Reeves was cast, “It was felt that he couldn’t play a convincing Brit.” Technically, Reeves can’t play a convincing anything, and he hasn’t done anything to improve his skills for this movie. But he’s also a good vessel as an action hero; he’s built a whole new reputation on “The Matrix,” after all.

To his credit, he is given few lines, and he does have a generally hard-boiled aura about him. Still, with Reeves onboard, this should work a lot better than it does—and making the hero British isn’t the remedy. There is the normal type of comic book absurdity—the kind that we all love—and then there is just stupidity, into which “Constantine” indulges on far too many occasions.

The movie wants very badly to be taken seriously; it begs for some sort of explanation from the movie’s screenwriters. First off, what’s the deal with Constantine’s partner-cum-girlfriend Angela Dodson (Rachel Weisz)? Her involvement in the film is trite, uninteresting and clearly brought on by the necessity to have a love interest in the picture. Her motivation in the film, brought on by the supposed suicide of her twin sister, is rife with the kind of “secret twin connection” mumbo-jumbo that permeates soap operas.

Then there are the scenes of action, which are too ridiculous to be ignored by suspension of disbelief. Whose idea was it to bring in the blessed brass knuckles as a weapon against demons? Or how about the dazzling concept of dumping a cross in a building’s water supply, resulting in holy water sprinklers? There’s so much you can do with Christianity as the subject of action movies; it’s been repeated hundreds of times in the movies. So why descend into such cartoonish territory?

Mind you, there is a certain type of cinematic tone that can successfully mix sensibilities of thoughtful drama with a touch of goofiness—something that comes across perfectly in the original “Matrix.” Constantine never fully reaches to what it aspires, but it hints at it with a cameo by Peter Stormare as Satan, who comes across just as he should: sublimely evil and reeking of corruption, though not without a hint of black humor.

The best thing that can be said about Constantine is that it is diverting; though it is stupid, it is never boring, thereby avoiding the greatest sin of the worst action films. And, despite the infamy of some music video directors who make the leap to features, Francis Lawrence manages to shoot the film with technical competence. No MTV-style shots here.

As it stands, there are worse ways to spend eight bucks and two hours. But, of course, that phrase alone should also imply that there are much better ways.