From the moment it became clear that Dead Man Walking was a near masterpiece of unfettered emotion and intelligent filmmaking, Last Dance was dead in the water. There was clearly admirable intent in this alternate death row drama with Shazza roughing herself up to stretch that sex-bomb range. However, in the face of the, er, stiff competition and in Beresford's loose handling of a very silly script, the movie is unfortunately rendered ludicrous.
An auburn and bad tempered Stone, housed on death row years after a savage teenage slaying (cue slo-mo flashback), is given her execution date. Down-on-his-luck lawyer Morrow, given a helping hand by his high-flying elder bro (Gallacher), is assigned to the case. They meet. They argue. They fall in love. And so an impassioned Morrow endeavours to reverse the conviction in the face of political gain and family outrage as time runs out. All of it is incredibly obvious, most of it laughably overplayed.
While Stone's deadpan white trash is a million miles from her sex-kitten of old, she's also a good few light years from Sean Penn's voluble agony. And Morrow, sporting a horrible Hugh Grant mop, does little to establish a credible grounding for his character. Together they muster scant chemistry, drowning amid the teeming melodrama and pick-axe subtle issue-making. Any sympathy for Stone or the anti-death penalty message is confused in the film's failure to convince she was ever capable of such a crime. Or even that it matters.
The worst of it, though, is reserved for the "traumatic" finale where last minute reprieves, purges of the soul and teary goodbyes are bandied back and forth to such a potty extent the effect is pure comedy.