You know things are dire when you find yourself thinking fondly of ol’ Buffalo Bill in “The Silence of the Lambs,” with his toy poodle and broken-tape-recorder voice. Nowadays any hack with a bottle of chloroform and an ’80s pop fixation thinks he’s a memorable serial killer.
In the emptily unpleasant thriller “The Call,” which may or may not be a paid advertisement for the good folks at 911, Halle Berry is our poor man’s Clarice.
Admittedly, it would be nice to think every emergency operator is like Berry’s Jordan, tears trembling on her magnificent doe eyes as she feels your pain and tells you to sit tight, the police are on their way. (Well, in eight to 10 minutes. Hope things aren’t too dicey!)
But even 911 empaths like Jordan screw up once in a while; still distracted from a makeout sesh with her cop boyfriend (Morris Chestnut), Jordan inadvertently contributes to the murder of a teenage girl by an intruder. Six months later, a hysterical call from the trunk of a car by Casey, another teen (Abigail Breslin, gamely blubbering) has a still-traumatized Jordan convinced the guy has struck again.
“The Call” experiences a brief, engaging upswing as Jordan and Casey race against time — and a finite cellphone battery — to piece together where the car is and attempt to alert other drivers (one of whom is a silver-haired Michael Imperioli, cruising by to remind you of other, superior odes to brute violence). Berry gives it her all, reminding you why she’s risen to greatness in better material (“Monster’s Ball”) and remains so watchable even in dreck like this.
Granted, Casey is a scared-stiff adolescent, but director Brad Anderson (“The Machinist”) has her making a belief-defying amount of bad decisions in that trunk. If it were me, and I managed to smash a taillight and stick my hand out, I might wave, say, until my freaking arm fell off. Not just a few times.
But this is an awfully chilly LA, a place where a killer (Michael Eklund) can bludgeon someone with a shovel in broad daylight next to the interstate, and apparently no one is the wiser. So it’s not looking too good for Casey no matter how much (or little) she waves. Especially when Jordan starts asking her stuff like “What’s your favorite movie?” and comparing astrological signs. Nothing says you’re in good law-enforcement hands like “Hey, I’m a Capricorn too!”
Soon enough, we arrive where we always knew we’d end up: in a dank, dripping cellar. (Just once, a murderer couldn’t do his dirty work in a finished basement? A nice rec room?)
Cue the deep-seated psychosis, the creepy shrine, the chase wherein the bad guy being knocked to the ground might not mean he’s actually dead. (Although if my screening audience is any indication, this still throws people for a loop.)
I’ll say one thing for “The Call”: Its ending is actually a bit of a surprise. Just when you think it couldn’t get any stupider, pow! I’ll be damned, Hollywood, you still have the power to blindside.