A popcorn picture that thinks it’s “The Last Emperor,” “The Karate Kid” is about as likely to grab your youngster’s attention as any other propaganda film made by the Chinese government.
The remake of the 1984 movie is a dreary tale of a Detroit kid (Will Smith’s son Jaden) whose mother (Taraji P. Henson) is sent by an auto company to work in Beijing. There aren’t many elements to this story, and we already know what they’re going to be — bullies, girl, teacher, training, tournament — yet every one of them goes as swiftly as performing the breaststroke in wet cement. Norwegian director Harald Zwart really puts the slo in Oslo. His picture is destined to be shown on the New York to Beijing flight, and it’ll almost be over by the time the plane lands.
It isn’t even about karate, but kung fu, which the lad learns from the super (Jackie Chan) of his apartment building. Chan mopes around mysteriously and even gets to go nuts in a Big Dramatic Scene ™ designed to put him in Pat Morita’s footsteps to an Oscar nod. Ain’t gonna happen.
The kid, Dre, flirts up a taller cute girl (Wenwen Han) in his new school and the two spend much of the movie scampering around Beijing Tourist Board locations like the Forbidden City, as if the average 12-year-old will care. I’ve been to China, and trust me: Smoke six packs of unfiltered Luckys while strolling down Mott Street, and you’ll get the gist.
The toxic gray bouillabaisse that Beijing folk call “air” and try to force into their lungs (frequently through surgical masks) is nowhere referred to, because China’s state-run film agency co-produced the film.
Moreover, the kids are so young (Smith is 11) that their relationship is just a cute friendship, not a real romance, and though her dad briefly forbids her to see Dre, there isn’t a real conflict here, just a point of custom. That a tradition-soaked Chinese dad might not be thrilled by the idea of his daughter dating a black kid, or an American, is also not brought up.
There’s nothing wrong with the story — but there’s nothing fresh about it either, and the climax is a virtual replay of the one in the 1984 version. Moreover, the “Rocky” model was only 8 years old when Ralph Macchio tied on the black belt. Now — a quarter-century of underdog sports movies later — would be the perfect time to find some new approach.
Instead, we get a few in-jokey references to the first film (only one of which, involving chopsticks, is actually witty) and a lot of discount-Eastern-epigrams: “No such thing as bad students. Only bad teacher” and “Life will knock us down. But we can choose whether or not to get back up.”
Where is the fun? Zwart’s poky direction offers no flash, not even cheap Michael Bay tactics, to mask the flaws of a thin script. (We learn virtually nothing about the mom, except that she seems like a nice lady, or about the bully, except that his teacher is mean.)
Director and script work very much to the disadvantage of the lead actor, who to put it kindly, would not yet be considered leading-man material were it not for his father, who is also a producer of the film. I can’t imagine what it might be like to be the son of the biggest movie star in the world but it would appear that such an experience doesn’t exactly stuff you with humility. Young Smith comes across as petulant, rude and entitled, especially when his mom keeps telling him to pick up his clothes and he keeps refusing. You don’t exactly root for the bullies to stomp Dre, but nor are you overcome by outrage when they do.
kyle.smith@nypost.com