The decline of Jonathan Demme into derivative hackery has often been put down to the curse of Oscar, but it's to be hoped that after his horribly misguided remake of The Manchurian Candidate the only way is up. Even were the original not such a terrific movie, this one would fall on its lack of wit or imagination, not least because of a strikingly poor script by Daniel Pyne and Dean Georgaris that not only fears what's best in the novel and the original film but also lacks logic, momentum, satire, characterization or, most crucially for a thriller, suspense or even cheap thrills. There are a few positives: the red menace now becomes Haliburton - sorry, Manchurian Global - the romantic interest has a more valid reason for involving herself with an obvious psychiatric case and there is one neat switch in the finale. Unfortunately they're all thrown away, with an epilogue that is truly absurd, while the political commentary is never embedded in the narrative but crudely pasted on in the form of news reports. And is it just me, but why do the hands-on villains have to be Brits? Can any nation have treated their allies in not one but two Iraq wars with such open contempt?
Even on a technical level, at times it's strikingly clumsy, be it the often crude editing, the inane nightmare sequences or the literally unbelievable sound mix (those cheers on the nomination speeches set a new low in credibility). But the biggest problem, along with chronic overlength, is that you never care about anyone in the film. Whereas Laurence Harvey's pathetic cold fish latched onto Frank Sinatra's Marco even though he knew he despised him out of a terrible and desperate loneliness born of self-loathing in the original, Demme and Levine keep the two apart for most of the film, denying both of them the relationships with `normal' characters that highlighted their damaged psyches in the original. Nor are the actors able to draw you in much either. Denzel Washington is on poor form for much of the film until his paranoia takes him over Parallax style. Liv Schreiber fares better, but seems to be channelling Robert Foxworth circa 1978. But the real nail in the coffin is Meryl Streep, an actress who may have heard of subtlety once but has since gone out of her way to avoid it at all costs, giving the worst performance of her career, displaying an unbelievable assortment of ridiculously over the top mannerisms that put you in mind of a drunken Robert Newton playing Widow Twankey in a rundown seaside town's annual Christmas panto. Her every scene is just painful to watch in a rather silly, drawn out film that aspires to be average and almost makes it.