Fair Game Review

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Max Kirkpatrick is a good cop assigned to protect an attorney from a renegade KGB group determined to kill her. Cue an affair and lots of explosions.


Kicking off with a title sequence pitched bizarrely between The Lion King and Baywatch (our heroine runs gracefully along a beach as the sun rises) Fair Game is the latest processed action item to roll off the Joel Silver conveyor-belt, designed not only to satiate thrill-seekers but also to showcase the acting talents of supermodel Cindy Crawford. A recipe for disaster, right?

Actually, Crawford is not the worst thing about what is ultimately scarcely more than an exercise in formulaic pap. As Miami civil lawyer Kate McQuean, Cind does get to take more showers than can possibly be good for one person's complexion and wear clothes remarkable for their gradual reduction in size, but while she'll never be the next Jodie Foster, given something half-decent she might not be half bad.

Sadly, this daft starring vehicle is not it. What plot there is has Crawford under the witness protection programme going into hiding with cop Max Kirkpatrick (Baldwin) after her apartment is blown to smithereens by barking Russian-with-a-grudge Berkoff because of some overly-complicated legal wrangle. Except there's a catch; the nutters after her happen to be gadget-laden surveillance experts who can trace everything from where she uses her credit card to order pizzas to what sort of car they're making their getaway in.

What follows is a steady stream of explosions, car chases, violent deaths (seemingly more bloody and gratuitous than usual), and feeble jokes about the attractiveness of Crawford (who has a phenomenal collection of clothes considering everything she owns in the world has been blown into a million pieces). Baldwin is sadly devoid of charisma, but then again he has little to do except smoulder, kill bad people and have sex with Crawford on a moving train.

The explosions may be bigger and better than ever, the running time may be user-friendly, but such trifles can't compensate for a total lack of chemistry between the leads and a painful sense of deja vu throughout.