Directed by the tiny, tiny-brained John Stockwell, Into the Blue involves a ship, some cocaine, some sunken treasure, and … oh, fuck it. What’s the point, really? Jessica Alba is in it, and, more importantly to the people who will actually see this underwater excrement, so is her ass, which puts in an Oscar-worthy performance, if Oscar were a bearded, slightly dirty, 45-year-old pedophile. If staring at Jessica Alba’s G-stringed ass cheeks and wondering what’s beneath her nether-trim is worth $10 and two hours of your time, you’re probably not going to find a better film than Into the Blue but, for the love of God, I hope you can live with the shame of walking out of your local multiplex with half an erection and probably just a little bit too much popcorn butter on your hands.
Still, I can’t decide who commits the bigger offense here: Sony Pictures for distributing Into the Blue; the hard-up sickos who patronize it; or Jessica Alba, who allowed herself to be degraded by the middle-aged beer-gutted goons with nothing better to do with their Saturday afternoons. Jesus! It’s no fucking wonder that Roger Ebert gave Into the Blue a thumbs up; I, for one, don’t want anything to do with that thumb, especially right after he walked out of Into the Blue, a movie so transparently exploitative, so criminally horrid, that I can’t believe it simply wasn’t entitled, Gawking at Jessica Alba’s Ass Crack with a Soft-Focus Lens.
Back to the ship, the sunken treasure, and the cocaine (something you’re going to need a lot of to sit through this): Jessica Alba and Paul Walker play Sam and Jared, young lovers, divers, and professional wastes of cinematic space. The eye-catching onscreen couple — apparently unfamiliar with Hollywood, which gladly hands out millions of dollars to untalented attractive people — lives on a squalid boat on bricks, content enough with the occasional meal of chili and cornbread and the opportunity to diddle one another; content, that is, until long-time friend, Bryce (Scott Caan) pays a visit with his girlfriend, Amanda (the slightly less attractive waste of space, Ashley Scott). Out for a dive with the sharks, Jared drops his watch and, in his efforts to find it, stumbles upon a long-lost pirate ship, which just happens to reside about 200 yards from an airplane accommodating enough cocaine to keep Courtney Love in her house for about 400 years.
Soon enough, the plot (which is about a thin as Alba’s bikini straps) meanders into expected territory: Alba’s ass swims around in the ocean; Alba’s ass gets involved with the bad guys; Alba’s ass kicks the bad guy’s ass; Alba’s ass hooks up with Walker’s abs, and everyone lives happily ever after, except — of course — you, who had to sit through it all.
Props to director John Stockwell, though, whose brain is not so tiny as to completely fail to recognize that absolutely the only thing going for Into the Blue is Alba’s backend, but one has to wonder where the “eye candy” ends and the hardcore cinematic gluttony begins. I, for one, have no problem with visual confections, but they need a base — a meaty plot to rest upon. Unfortunately, Into the Blue is like offering a box of Hostess Twinkies to go along with some stale beef jerky; there is just nothing to stick to your ribs. And if anybody needs something to stick to her ribs, it’s Alba, who could use some jerky to go along with that Tic Tac she’s having for dinner tonight.
Dustin Rowles is the publisher of Pajiba and managing partner of its parent company, which prefers to remain anonymous for reasons pertaining to public relations. He lives in Ithaca, New York.
Film | May 13, 2006 | Comments ()