Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans (2009)

The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans is an eight-word title that’s about seven words too long. Guess which word should remain. And the length of the title isn’t the only excessive thing about this movie.

It’s a “reimagining” — no, that implies imagination, and there’s no evidence of that here — a rehash (appropriate, considering the rampant drug use) of the 1992 cult film Bad Lieutenant, directed by Abel Ferrara and starring Harvey Keitel. I disliked that movie, particularly the boring, interminable scenes of Keitel’s drug-addict cop shooting heroin. This time, it’s virtually the same story, only set in the city of New Orleans and directed by Werner Herzog, the man responsible for such cinema classics as Aguirre: The Wrath Of God and Fitzcarraldo. Now, along with screenwriter William Finklestein and star Nicolas Cage, he can add this ignorant mess to his resume.

A caption begins the story in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, yet the only evidence of that disaster appears during the opening scene in which detectives Terence (Cage) and Stevie (Val Kilmer) taunt a forgotten jailbird on the verge of drowning inside his flooding cell. Terence stupidly jumps over a railing into the water … and suddenly a doctor is prescribing him Vicodin for possibly permanent pain in his back. Six months later, this act of valor helps get him a promotion to lieutenant. He’s also now noticeably addicted to all snortable drugs, abetted by a connection working in the evidence room and by his druggie girlfriend Frankie (Eva Mendes), who’s also a high-dollar prostitute. (Is there any other kind in movies like this?)

Terence leads the investigation of the bloody murders of a five Senegalese illegal immigrants, quickly sniffs out that drugs were involved, and pursues charges against a local drug kingpin, Big Fate (rapper Xzibit). A scared teenage boy witnessed the killings, and drug-addled Terence tries to protect him by taking him to a casino in Biloxi and leaving him with Frankie, interrupting her meeting with a connected john who vows revenge. Of course, the kid disappears, so Terence threatens the kid’s mother with a gun pressed against her head while simultaneously cutting off the oxygen of the invalid old lady she’s caring for. We also witness him screw and smoke crack with a girl in a club parking lot while he makes her boyfriend watch, smoke a joint in front of a murder suspect while other cops lurk outside, and steal and snort drugs every chance he gets. All while evading the guys from Internal Affairs, the mobsters, the drug kingpin, and his bookie (Brad Dourif, in a rare, non-quirky performance).

The website for The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans describes it as “manically humorous,” and admittedly there was audience laughter during the screening, but whatever comedy it purportedly contained was completely lost on me. Nicolas Cage wildly overacts his role and is often reminiscent of Dave O’Brien (“Play it faster!”) in the old camp classic Reefer Madness, so his similarly outlandish, scenery-chewing performance generates most of the laughs.

Cage’s character is pathetic and wholly unlikable, whatever accent he’s attempting appears and disappears at random, and he lurches through every scene like Igor in Young Frankenstein, with his shoulders slanted and his collar unbuttoned. And despite the story taking place over many days, Cage wears the same suit and tie in nearly every scene. He may score continuity points with the film editors for that, but he doesn’t score anything for believability. That suit must smell as bad as this whole movie.

Finklestein’s screenplay doesn’t add any credibility, either. It’s no big stretch to depict New Orleans cops as corrupt, and the script has Cage constantly spouting groaner lines such as, “A man without a gun isn’t a man.” There’s a pointless subplot involving his AA-obsessed father (Tom Bower), beer-swilling stepmother (Jennifer Coolidge, literally and figuratively wasted in this role), and a dog nobody wants to take care of. The dog eventually evaporates from the film altogether, as does Val Kilmer, who is strangely absent from most of the movie until his character reappears to illogically complicate the climax. A scene where Cage relates a childhood memory to his whore-friend is supposed to be an intimate character moment, but it winds up being appalling in its idiocy. The ending isn’t much better, as the happily-ever-after quality reeks of interference from the Hollywood suits.

The overindulgence of both star and screenwriter is matched here by the shocking excesses of director Herzog. In addition to the overplayed drug use and nonsensical, irresponsible gun wielding — Cage constantly points his pistol at people, even cocking the hammer, then shoves it in his waistband — Herzog lets many scenes play out far too long. The film also includes moments which made my jaw drop with incredulity, such as when the star is upstaged for at least a minute by two iguanas accompanied by bad music (Mark Isham’s score is also guilty of craven excess), and a camera is strapped to a live alligator.

The eye-rolling absurdities of director, screenwriter, and star reach their mutual pinnacle at the climax, when a gun battle concludes with wild-eyed Cage telling an associate, “Shoot him again! His soul is still dancing!” And then Herzog shows us, in the midst of a floor littered with corpses, a guy break-dancing! Is it suddenly the ’80s again?

As much as I disliked the Harvey Keitel original, it failed to piss me off like Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans did. Police corruption, drugs, and gun violence are subjects to be taken seriously, and I see little humor in depicting them with such a cavalier attitude. It’s a despicable, irresponsible, and ultimately worthless film.

If you enjoyed this review, you might also be interested in the following:

• Public Enemies
• Righteous Kill