The Red and Black

Issue date: 9/20/07 Section: Out & About

Media Credit: Courtesy 'The Brave One' Jodie Foster plays Erica Bain in Neil Jordan's newest thriller, "The Brave One," which opened in theaters nationwide last weekend. [Click to enlarge]

Jodie Foster must have had delusions of Travis Bickle, the psychopath vigilante intent on blowing the scum off of New York City streets in Martin Scorsese's "Taxi Driver."

In the 1976 masterpiece, Foster plays a child prostitute that develops a relationship with Bickle (Robert De Niro) and becomes the catalyst for his murderous rampage.

Thirty-one years later, Foster trades in the clear stripper heels for a nine millimeter in "The Brave One," a convoluted, steaming pile of feminist justice that belongs with Foxy Brown in the exploitation flicks of the '70s.

"Taxi Driver" made audiences squirm because they didn't know whether to cheer or hiss as Bickle topped off pimps and druggies on his way to revenge in the underbelly of the Big Apple.

The moral implications aren't as dubious here. Foster should have had a colossal "S" implanted on her chest.

She plays Erica Bain, a radio show host who loses her boyfriend in a vicious attack in Central Park when the couple has the foresight to take their dog for a late night stroll in the isolated haven.

Bain wakes up from a coma three weeks later and purchases a gun. And wouldn't ya know, she stumbles into a murder of the most sexist Ipod thieves in film history.

The New York presented here makes Compton look like Candyland.

You may have to pinch yourself during "The Brave One" as a reminder that this is not "Death Sentence," released three weeks ago with Kevin Bacon avenging the death of his son through an arsenal of bullets.

What does it say about our culture that we've had two films in less than a month claiming the only route to revenge is through the barrel of a gun?

In what feels like nothing more than a paycheck for acclaimed director Neil Jordan ("The Crying Game"), "The Brave One" morphs into a first person shooter, begging the audience to get some sick form of pleasure as Foster delivers calculated one liners before placing steel in some stereotypical goon.

Yeah, some type of feminism.

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