Movie critics all across the country are running around shouting that Denzel Washington is going to get an Oscar for his role as an alcoholic airline pilot in the new movie Flight. They’re using really clever phrases like “Denzel SOARS in Flight!” Hah! Hah! Very witty! A lot of these pun-loving critics, I’ve noticed, are men. I am not a man. However, I saw a preview screening of Flight this week and I’m here to say it is a wonderful piece of cinema – if you like ham-fisted Lifetime movies with after-school special morals, stupid music, and boobs. Tons of boobs.
This is a serious character study about a man with lots of demons who becomes a national hero when he safely lands a plane that’s nose-diving straight down onto a holy-roller church in the South, even though he’s secretly drunk and high on coke. Crash landing into a church is a subtle symbol of faith and redemption.
The actual crash is pretty impressive and tense (props to director Robert Zemeckis and his team for that), but the problem is that, before all this sheer drama begins, the movie basically opens with a shot of a woman’s perfect yet blurry boob. When my eyes finally focused and I realized that I was looking at a naked, perky breast, the words, “Are they kidding?” floated through my confused brain. I could feel my blood pressure spike a teeny bit. “What does a boob have to do with plane crashes?! I came to see plane crashes!” I thought. This isn’t a sexy French thriller. Then it got worse.
After the opening C-cup tableau, Denzel lounges in a hotel bed demurely covered by a sheet, having a long, one-sided conversation with his invisible ex-wife who seems to want money from him for their kid’s tuition. She is presented as being a bitch.
You quickly realize that the blurry boob that opened the movie belongs to a super hot woman who seems to enjoy traipsing around the hotel room buck-naked before she slips into a skimpy G-string. In a moment of true inspiration, the woman bends over, stripper style, as Denzel stares straight at her ass and says into the phone, “I’ve been up since the crack of dawn.” It’s like Chekhov meets Benny Hill.