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Review

Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman are going to die sometime in the next few decades. It's the closest thing to a statistical lock: both are age 70 as of this writing (shortly after seeing The Bucket List) and I'm sitting in the theater welling up in tears as I picture a eulogy for Freeman, one of the great actors of his generation, and knowing that someday soon, there will be no more movies from Easy Reader. There's nothing I hate more than an unnecessary voiceover, and yet he's able to pacify me with that smooth voice and quiet dignity. And what of fast-living Nicholson, always fascinating to watch on-screen, with that devilish twinkle dancing in his eyes? It's beautiful to watch him act his age and reveal another layer of himself, but how long will he last? Again, tears form as the music swells.

It's doubly tragic that none of these emotions were actually triggered by the characters in this supremely manipulative, aggressively formulaic movie. In fact, nearly every line that fell like dead weight out of their mouths only served to heighten the artifice and deaden the emotions. Occasionally, Jack would have one of those Jack moments to suck me back in, like his (possibly ad-libbed) rules about getting old: "Never pass up a bathroom, never waste a hard-on, and never trust a fart." But anyone owning a passing familiarity with Save the Cat and other screenwriting-by-numbers instruction books will feel the machinations nearly immediately, with ruthlessly efficient (and glaringly unnatural) dialogue... when Freeman mentions his love of a certain car, is there any question that he'll be driving it within 20 minutes? Actually, with his "Jeopardy!" obsession, I was shocked that he didn't end up appearing on the show during Cancer Week.

Oh yes, the high-concept plot: Two men from different walks of life find themselves both terminally ill in the same hospital room, and decide to fulfill a list of things to do before they kick the bucket. And thanks to sprightly direction by Reiner and the always-able actors, the film does kick into gear when they episodically start tackling the things on the list, including skydiving and mountain climbing. (For those who think this unrealistic, I tend to believe that anyone who has been through the draining process of chemotherapy could be capable of this when they stop treatment, much like having a weight lifted off your back. Then again, my capacity for suspension of disbelief is legendary, which explains why I enjoyed Message in a Bottle).

Like clockwork, though, the script would clank and whirr and drive everything to a halt, until eventually the little twist ending arrives (thanks to an unreliable narrator) and the atrocious John Mayer song kicks in. After a long dry spell for director Rob Reiner, he at least shows signs of life here, along with his primary actors. But please, guys, pick better material next time. This script isn't terminal, it's DOA.

 -- David Gorgos