It’s easy to see why all of the ladies love Daniel Craig. He’s British, which means he’s automatically more sophisticated than any American man, but he also has the scary brooding intensity of a dangerously unhinged drifter. Craig is like Colin Firth crossed with your abusive, alcoholic, absentee father. He’s like Ted Bundy minus all of the murdering but with more-defined pecs. He’s sexy, but in a way that makes you want to lock your doors and hide in the cellar.
Yet Craig’s smoldering but vaguely unsettling quality limits him artistically. There are some roles he should never attempt to play such as a beloved schoolteacher, Santa Claus or anyone who wouldn’t strangle anything while shirtless. Craig’s lack of versatility is essentially one of the many problems that plague the goofy yet oddly entertaining “Dream House.” Craig simply doesn’t have the warmth or playfulness to portray a caring family man, and the scenes where he’s flirting with his wife or clowning around with his kids alternate between unintentional hilarity and unsettling creepiness.
In “Dream House,” Craig plays the awkwardly named Will Atenton, a publisher who retires from his job and moves into a new home with his family. As Will adjusts to his new surroundings, a shocking secret is revealed: The previous residents were murdered by a man named Peter Ward. Even more disturbing, Peter has just been released from a five-year stint in a mental asylum and has been seen skulking around outside of Will’s titular dream house. But who is Peter Ward, really? And why does everyone just sort of walk away from Will whenever he asks about the previous residents? And most importantly, what the hell is up with that scene where Will just notices that one room in his basement is where Gothic kids hang out and smoke clove cigarettes? Really? He just notices that room for the first time? What? Did he buy the house with his eyes closed? How could he not know that room was there? Jeepers H. Creepers!
If you couldn’t already guess, “Dream House” is driven by not one but two very dopey and illogical twists — twists so sloppily executed they raise more questions than answers. Like any M. Night Shyamalan movie that isn’t “The Sixth Sense,” “Dream House’s” “world-turned-upside-down premise” is unconvincing and makes very little sense even under the most cursory observations. But unlike Shyamalan’s painfully self-important turds, “Dream House” is so unbelievably dumb and unpretentious that it’s actually kind of fun. There’s a lot to laugh at, from the unlikely meaning behind Will’s full name to the cockeyed Hitler-esque toupee that kind of hovers above Craig’s head to Rachel Weisz’s continued insistence on speaking with a shaky American accent in every movie she appears in. Could somebody please sit her down and calmly explain to her that she isn’t fooling anybody? She sounds like someone from the Midwest trying to imitate someone from the South while speaking through a yawn. Stop encouraging her, Hollywood!
Ill-conceived and more than just a little silly, “Dream House” tries and fails to blow your mind. But with that said, “Dream House” does succeed as a genuine object of kitsch and is highly recommended for anyone who ever wanted to hear a clearly uncomfortable James Bond say, “Did you pee your pants? Did you pee your pants?” in a strained cutesy voice.
Rating: W W
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