After viewing “Jaws,” many vacationers thought twice before plunging into the briny depths of the ocean. With “Psycho,” Hitchcock turned the seemingly innocuous six by eight shower stalls in which most people begin each day into self-contained tunnels of terror. The phone companies have nothing to fear. Joel Schumacher’s “Phone Booth” does not have the potential to inspire this kind of reaction in even the most neurotic filmgoer.
Colin Farrell plays Stuart Shepard, a fast-talking publicist who, early in the film, answers a call in a pay phone booth only to hear the menacing voice on the other end say he’ll be shot with a high-powered rifle if he attempts to leave the booth.
The obvious challenge in making a film which doesn’t change scenery and has such a simple premise is to maintain the attention of an audience. To do this, a filmmaker can rely on a psychologically intriguing script brought to life by talented actors or resort to sharp special effects and MTV-style editing techniques. In this case, emphasis has been put on the latter. The result is tedious.
Performance-wise, the film is uneven. While Kiefer Sutherland, who provides the sniper’s eerie voice, helps pull the film through its lulls, Pernell Whitaker, who plays the cop negotiating the hostage situation occuring after the sniper takes out a bystander, is god-awful.
However, the real problem with the movie is not the garish aesthetics or poor performances, but what is sacrificed in pursuing cheap thrills. The real-world threat of snipers and terrorists is far more terrifying than anything this movie delivers. It just can’t compare to the six o’clock news.
By the end of the film, the sniper forces Stuart to stand before crowds and television cameras and admit he is a fraud. And we, the audience, are supposed to believe his sins are ours. Unfortunately, this film does not or possibly cannot bring these complex themes and ideas to fruition. Instead there is some neat gunfire and a suitably predictable ending. The film plays it safe, and the audience loses.
