Ash Wednesday (2002)

DIRECTOR: Edward Burns

CAST: Edward Burns, Elijah Wood, Rosario Dawson, Oliver Platt, James Handy, Michael Mulhern

REVIEW:

Actor Edward Burns’ latest film as writer/director, like his 1998 drama Looking Back, is clearly an attempt to switch gears from romantic comedies into something more serious, but while Ash Wednesday clearly wants to be one of those Catholic guilt-suffused Irish-American mob melodramas, a moody gritty tale of guilt and redemption with fundamentally decent but damned characters seeking redemption but getting drawn back into the criminal lifestyle they tried to leave behind, it ends up being a lesser entry that has a feeling of being made by some film school students—-ambitious, not entirely untalented, but inexperienced and in over their heads—-trying to cosplay Scorsese-lite.

On Ash Wednesday 1983, three years after he was supposedly killed by rival mobsters, Sean Sullivan (Elijah Wood) returns to the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of New York City, much to the dismay of his big brother Francis (Edward Burns), who is trying to keep his continued existence a secret from those who want him dead, especially the vengeful Moran (Oliver Platt). Not only does Sean’s return put his own life in danger, it also threatens the lives of Francis and Sean’s wife Grace (Rosario Dawson), forcing Francis to return to the criminal life he tried to leave behind.

It’s possible to see how Ash Wednesday could have been better if Burns had put a little more effort into his script. Burns’ lack of experience as a screenwriter shows as various pairings of characters have repetitive conversations covering the same ground and rehashing background exposition we’ve already gotten. Even for the slim 99-minute runtime, the plot feels thin—-characters wander around looking for Sean, or talking about Sean, or expositing to each other about why Sean went away—-and there’s a lack of both intriguing plot developments and interesting characters. About the only semi-intriguing character is Rosario Dawson’s Grace, whose struggle to accept the possible reappearance of her husband three years after he faked his death and abandoned her—-further complicated by the fact that she’s been sleeping with Francis in his absence—-is just about the only compelling aspect of the plot. The biggest problem is everything feels overly familiar and nothing we haven’t seen before, and seen better, in other movies. I’m not against profanity-laced dialogue when it’s realistic to the place and environment, but here, the characters dropping F-bombs every other word feels somehow forced and try hard. The movie looks authentic; the dark and smoky bars inhabited by the characters are suitably atmospheric and broody, but it’s just window dressing when there’s not much interesting going on in them.

There are also casting unlikelihoods. Burns has cast himself in the lead but is little more than adequate in a mostly one-note mode of glum repression. Still, the most fatal blunder is Elijah Wood, squeezing in this little indie movie in between Lord of the Rings installments. It’s easy to see why Wood took the role; he’s probably in the midst of being typecast as Frodo Baggins, and this is an attempt to take a grittier edgier role in a smaller indie movie that’s about as far away from Middle Earth as possible. Unfortunately, Wood feels miscast and out of place (his dropping F-bombs every few words feels not only gratuitous, but also like the cherubic-faced young actor is trying too hard to be “edgy”) and is as hard to swallow as Burns’ brother as he is having a romance with Rosario Dawson (Wood and Dawson make an unlikely couple to put it gently, and the fact that we barely see them together doesn’t help surmount the challenge). Speaking of, Dawson is the movie’s best performance, making Grace a fiery and credibly emotionally conflicted character who feels like she belongs in a better movie. With the possible exception of the usually fatuous Oliver Platt, who’s surprisingly believable playing against type as a mobster, the rest of the supporting cast doesn’t make much of an impression; Michael Mulhern’s Detective Pulaski in particular feels like every generic detective ever.

Despite the superficial authenticity of its trappings, Ash Wednesday feels somehow overblown and hackneyed, like a mediocre cover of a better song. Among these kinds of moody, broody, Irish-American mob melodramas, it’s a weak and forgettable entry.

* *