The severely nonthrilling thriller “Whiteout” moves like winter in Antarctica. Who the flake greenlit this blobby blur?
Kate Beckinsale plays a US marshal who specializes in assignments that are deep in fluffy white powder (now: Antarctica; previously: Miami).
Things begin promisingly, with an imitation Copacabana-in-“GoodFellas” tracking shot following her in from the cold at a remote polar research station populated by sprinting nudists, hard-core drinkers, global-warming researchers and other zanies. The shot culminates with Beckinsale stripping down to take a (chastely photographed) shower, and that’s a wrap for the excitement this evening, folks.
The rest is an achy little murder mystery involving a missing band of scientists, the mysterious cargo of a Russian plane that went down in 1957 and a whole lot of weather updates. Every few minutes we get a graphic stating that it is, for instance, minus 55 degrees Celsius at the research station, but minus 65 C at an old Russian base, yet — hang on to your hats for this one — minus 60 C at someplace called “Camp Delta-One One.”
Hey, screenwriters — all four of you: Did you skip the first day of writing class, the one where they write on the blackboard, “Show, don’t tell”? If I’d wanted weather on the ones, I would have stayed home and watched Pat Kiernan.
The mystery, too, isn’t so much shown as read aloud like a bedtime story. In between flashbacks about the Really Messed-Up Thing That Happened in Miami, Beckinsale keeps reciting what she’s gleaned from, say, a splotch of blood on a locked trunk. It means that a dead dude must have cut his leg open trying to crack it. In the cargo hold of the Russian plane, she glances at a corpse and asks, “Why is one of the pilots back here?”
She’s an expert on Soviet military insignia from 1957? This chick belongs on “Jeopardy!,” not Antarctica.
Even clunkier than the exposition is the action. Apart from the prefatory shots of the Russian aircraft crashing, which looks like it was sketched out on a Commodore 64 computer, the action consists of two near-identical chase sequences in which a guy with an ice ax pursues our Beckinsale verry slooowly through a blizzard.
Each bundled-up, shapeless figure is clinging to a guide rope. They’re a few feet apart and moving sluglike against the wind as one ducks and the other flails with the ax. The second time around there are three unidentifiable blobs in parkas replaying the same shtick.
Another big thrill moment: Everyone’s in a snowcat. The engine won’t start! They’re going to be Popsicles! So they have a drink and try again. It starts.
Later, for no reason, an innocent guy will run madly away from Beckinsale through the research station. Where does he think he’s going? Next stop is Tasmania, mate.
Wrapping things up with a “big reveal” that’s as bland as a snow sandwich, the bad guy turns out to have the most boring possible motivation and is too drained to even invoke his fundamental villain’s right to be chased around for a while. I know just how you feel, buddy.
By the time this thing creaked to a close, the look on my face suggested Jack Nicholson at the end of “The Shining.”