MEET JOE BLACK (1998) ***1/2 Probably no other film in history has had such a colossal aesthetic chasm between its high and low points. Given the preposterous plot-Death takes a holiday on earth looking for love-it's truly impressive that there are any high points at all. Some of the problem is Brad Pitt as the Angel of Death. Cast against type as awkward, inarticulate and anotherworldly he simply lacks the ominous presence required for the role. Of course the simple reality is also that Pitt may be only contemporary actor capable of playing the part, no one else could even be close as he demonstrates in the climactic scenes in which the script thrusts him into his natural state as the archetypical cosmic exemplar. More of the problem is the unfortunate casting of Claire Forlani as the love interest. She shows some promise but clearly isn't ready for prime time. The love scenes between the two are dull, stupid, inept, unbelievable, and quite nearly interminable-eternal only on in the pejorative sense. Anthony Hopkins is wonderful as always, casually shrugging into the gravitas of a poignant corporate overlord with a sense of the existence of many things more important than the bottom line. If he is in fact mythical he is matched by the stark reality of greed incarnate-Jake Weber, perfect as the spirit of commerce in the late 20th century. After the plodding and mucking about through senseless scenes and unattractive characters, how does it suddenly go so good? Hopkins takes the gloves off, Pitt invokes the immutable heroic glory that is his stage personae, the writers give them the twisted lines, Martin Brest entirely lets loose the reins...the faces of Hopkins, Pitt, and Weber show not only all of the emotion demanded by the climactic scene and nothing else, but also the cognizance of great actors at the top of their game creating a historic work. All are unquestionably brilliant, Pitt plays the conquering hero better than anyone in the history of Hollywood (oh fine, anyone besides Warren Beatty who can even make a hero out of idiots). The power of the last hour, until the closing minutes when Forlani reappears and they smooth things out for the Sydney Sheldon set, is the magic of American cinema in its highest form: the inexorable triumph of courage, celestial accommodation for the whims and glory of the just, the moral imperative of battle, and somehow even the primal religion of romance even though you'd have to watch a different film for empirical evidence of such a thing.
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