The Detective (1968)

Frank Sinatra is a seen-it-all NYC detective on the verge of seeing far more than he ever bargained for when he starts investigating the case of a –- to use James Ellroy’s cruel terms –- homo-cide. The crime starts in a high-end flat with a corpse minus a pecker, but Sinatra’s Joe Leland don’t blink. Yet. The man also has off-job problems, dealing with the collapse of his marriage to a new ager Karen (Lee Remick). These latter scenes are a dud, especially the flashbacks as Joe meets Karen, each sequence intro’d by a twirly camera and goofy “You are getting sleepy!” music that would play better in a Marx Brothers spoof. Scenes involving the gay “lifestyle” are unintentionally hilarious-slash-insulting. Sinatra gives the roll his all, and the mystery is aces, but director (Gordon Douglas) drops balls. Speaking of, dig that perfectly placed fern. Too funny. Film geek alert: Based on a book, Leland got a new name and title in his next novel-to-screen adaptation, “Die Hard.” Yes, John McClane. B

Non-Stop (2014)

“Non-Stop” is not a comedy. I laughed my ass off. Not a good sign for a thriller that stars Liam Neeson in Angry Action Figure Mode and plays on 9/11 fears of hijackings and police state surveillance. Neeson is Bill Marks, suicidal fuck-up air cop with a booze problem and a tragic life who should never hold a gun, much less be issued one by Uncle Sam for work at 30,000 feet. But here Bill is anyway, sweating buckets as he texts back and forth with a psycho who threatens to down the plane unless $1.5M is delivered to a Swiss bank account. One in Bill’s name. Cue drama! Cue the scenes where Neeson’s hero types. And types. And types. And calls his boss. Bill also kills a man, beats random passengers, screams, and waves and fires his gun like a madman. Why? This is “Taken” in the air. A cell phone and a gun, if those are in a script does Neeson just sign on? As stewardesses, Michelle Dockery of “Downton Abbey” and Lupito Nyong’o of “12 Years a Slave” do just about nothing. I’d watch a movie with them as the heroes. C-

Broken City (2013)

An ex-cop PI with a dirty past gets marooned in a FUBAR infidelity case among city elites that results in murder and corrupted land deals. Forget it, Jake, this isn’t sharp dagger classic “Chinatown.” It’s dull spoon thriller “Broken City” with Mark Wahlberg as the dick working for a NYC mayor (Russell Crowe) who’s up for reelection. Mayor’s demand: “Find my wife’s lover,” but he has more in play. Money. The plot is threadbare. Jake Gittes worked for his info. Suffered. Wahlberg’s hero *finds* the bad guy’s plans printed on giant poster board with bold font at a Dumpster. Good actors have saved worse, right? Not this. Crowe plays the mayor in a cartoon mashup of 1970s’ Lex Luther and Donald Trump, with spray-on can orange skin and a dippy toupee. Wahlberg? Autopilot. Director Albert Hughes smart, too a tone for Wahlberg, too brave for the sorry studio? C

RIPD (2013)

What’s a studio to do when a major franchise such as “Men in Black” dries up over tired scripts and fuck-off-looking tired actors (bye, Tommy Lee Jones)? It finds a place holder. A substitute teacher to keep the kids happy. “RIPD” fits the task. Ryan Reynolds plays a smart-aleck city cop swept up in a secret worldwide police force that pops supernatural criminals on sight, guns blazing, and his new partner is a crusty geezer with a piss attitude. Whoa, man. We’re not talking aliens, though. No, sir. That would copying. Here’s it’s the undead, ghosts. Not aliens. That would be copying. And, yes, there’s a big-city battle that means the end of the world. God help me. “RIPD” means Rest in Peace Department. Get it? Reynolds smirks at action and lays on puppy dog eyes at drama, just as he did in “Green Lantern.” He is endlessly fucking boring. As the cranky partner, Jeff Bridges -– great actor -- replays his role from “True Grit,” thinking paycheck. “Men in Black” had crazy wit and an ending that had me gasping with laughter. “RIPD”? I was looking at the clock. And the damn thing was as DOA as this grinding imposter. D+

The Raid 2 (2014)

Gareth Evans’ “TheRaid” had a thin plot: A SWAT team invades a Jakarta apartment tower to snatch a drug lord. Leading the charge: Rookie cop and to-be pop Iko Uwais with master hand-to-hand combatant skills and razor instincts. The close-quarters bloody violence astounded. “The Raid 2” goes city-wide and huge as Uwais is sent to prison by his bosses, tasked with befriending the son (Arifin Putra) of a crime kingpin (Tio Pakusadewo) to bring both down post-release. The job drags for years as Uwais enters the mob and learns that the son is out to get dad’s top spot via betrayal. Evans spins a well-known “Infernal Affairs”-like plot with epic kinetic force: He kills off near anyone from film one and ups the action to shockingly good effect with a car chase that tops any in years and a prison riot/fight that is a death ballet. Ditto fights set at a nightclub and kitchen. Welsh-native Evans just keeps raising the bar like an unhinged Tarantino. In a plot that eerily picks on the restaurant scene from the “Godfather,” the director/writer really shines. Uwais is spectacular as the silent hero. The Part 3 insider set up is more than welcome. A

The Naked Gun 2 1/2 : The Smell of Fear (1991)

Comedy sequel “The Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of Fear” is a far lesser return than the first film which remains a laugh-out-loud pleasure of my 1980s youth. Every ounce of joy here can be attributed to Leslie Nielsen, back as Lt. Frank Drebin and in Washington, D.C., for a prestigious LEO honor. As with John McClane, where Frank goes, so does trouble. And death. Here, Frank gets mixed up in a Big Business scam to keep oil as America’s energy source forever and ever, damn the Earth, let’s make some money. The decades old jokes hit Big Oil and George Bush I and yet still feel sharp because the environmental conversation has not moved one inch. Conservatives hold on to their wealth and demand the world to stop. Liberals seek a future. I digress. Apologies. The successful laugh ratio is iffy, at best. The whole movie could lose 20 minutes more and come out sharper. I still dig George Kennedy as the clueless tough cop, and Anthony James -– a regular in Clint Eastwood films –- as an assassin with a song on his lips. B

Dredd (2012) and Mad Max (1979)

It’s the future, so bring on the apocalypse. I downed cheapo, gonzo 1979 Australian classic (and Mel Gibson debut) “Mad Max” as a fast antidote to “Dredd,” the second cinematic coming of comic book anti-hero killer cop Judge Dredd after the God-awful, terrible 1995 Sylvester Stallone film of the same name that put freakin’ Rob Schneider in the sidekick role. 

(The less said about that debacle, the better. It took me months to recover from just one viewing.)

Is “Dredd” better? By far. Miles. It’s still crap. For myriad reasons. The plot: It’s post-nuclear war U.S. of A., and the whole East Coast is a godless concrete jungle of high rises and crime. The police and courts have been merged into the Judges: Leather-clad, masked cops with guns and a glint to kill. Basically, it’s like present day America except everybody is an unarmed young black man. You can get “judged” and end up in a body bag just for walking. Sorry, I digress. Still on a “FrutivaleStation” kick. Can’t help it.

Anyway, Dredd (Karl Urban) is the best (read: most ruthless) cop in Mega-City (because Metropolis was taken) and we follow him here as he takes on a high-rise apartment tower that reaches for the heavens, but might as well plunge low to the pits of hell. As in 1995, Dredd has a sidekick. And it’s a she, and not Schneider in drag, thank the gods. Helmetless because why stump the fan boy’s eye candy factor, Judge Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) also is a mutant who can read the thoughts of others. Why are there mutants popping around? No idea. 

Dredd and Anderson enter the complex to investigate a grisly drug-related triple murder and within minutes find themselves at the mercy of the building’s ruthless drug lord (Lena Headey). Mama she is called, and she places the building on lockdown and tells every thug ruthless, shitty, one-eyed, tenant over an intercom that she wants Dredd’s head now. From there it’s war, the tenants attack our hero (and the girl rookie) and he shoots, bombs, kicks, scowls, and grimaces his way through the lot to the top.

If One Man Against an War Zone Apartment Complex and the intercom bit sounds familiar it’s because the plot and details were done exactly point-for-point in “The Raid,” an kick-ass Indonesian action/blood fest also from 2012. Literally, this is a replica. Down to camera angles. Everything says director Pete Travis is innocent, it’s a mere coincidence. If it is, “Raid” is still the better film. And Travis has the luck of a rat. “Raid” has a hero that means something and is one hell of a sight to behold, has a human trait, and a reason not to fail. It’s also a spectacular feast of stunts. Seriously, see it.

This has CGI glut, a zero hero with Urban (good actor, no slam, I like him) doing Eastwood as an unkillable tank, and it all means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I get it. Dredd is supposed to be the darker Dark Knight. Great read for a book, I’m sure, bur a lousy watch and with so many wasted opportunities. Dig it: Mama has created a nasty drug that slows the brain to a crawl so every movement feels wicked trippy, lights pop, and rushing water stands still, and the effect is crazy wicked on screen. So let’s see Dredd on that shit, right? No. Dude just kills and scowls. I won’t watch a third film. C 

“Mad Max” I can watch endlessly. You know the plot: It’s the near-future, meaningful authority is dust-bin history, and the highways are open roads of lawlessness akin to old Australia or the American West than anything we’d call the future. Zero horses, all cars. Gibson is Max, a highway cop trying to maintain some order against roaming bikers who steal, rape, and kill for the pure glee. The bikers make the error to wrong Max’s friends and family, and Gibson as Max explodes like a fuel-air bomb in a film that feels not scripted or planned, but captured out of a complete drug-fueled nightmare. Not slow like in “Dredd,” but warp-speed head-rush fast.

Whole sections of “Max” are incomprehensible and wreck loud, but few films -– especially chase ones -– have ever felt more in the moment. It vibes like a tale that had to be made or writer/director George Miller and his star would just die. And for all the story’s debauchery, Miller shows little blood or gore. It’s just over the camera frame’s edge, way deep in our skull, and that is scarier than anything anyone can put before our eyes. Gibson is young and scary fanatical, is that acting? A-

Jack Reacher (2012)

In “Jack Reacher,” Tom Cruise is the coolest guy in the room who’s miles ahead of everyone else, can fight five guys no sweat, and when he walks by -– even at a Goodwill –- every woman swoons. The college girls, too. Yes, Cruise may be “playing” Jack Reacher, but really he’s spinning on his own ego. And since Reacher is one of those secret Army guys with no personality or background, why not let Cruise do so? He is the main attraction. Sorry Lee Child books fans. Here, Reacher investigates a mass murder carried out by an ex-Army sniper who we know is innocent because we saw another man (Jai Courtney) do the deed. Fear not, Reacher/Cruise will down every villain, right up to the one-fingered evil Blofeld cousin (famed director Werner Herzog) with an agenda so uninspired 007 would yawn. Not Reacher/ Cruise. He coolly threatens, scowls, and drives a Chevelle in a kick-ass car chase that’s a riotous hoot. All of this is carried out as a massacre plot that shies at the shock of violence to get a kid-friendly PG-13. But post-Sandy Hook, when a movie killer targets children, why are we not looking at an automatic R rating? B-

Identity Theft and The Heat (both 2013)

It’s awesome to see Melissa McCarthy becoming a box-office star. Here are two of her recent releases I just caught, nicely paired…

“Identity Theft” mashes neat freak and slob road-trip comedy “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” to numbers geek meets vulgar conman “Producers,” and hopes for gold. We get copper. You can guess the roles McCarthy and co-star Jason Bateman each go for. Plot: Bateman’s mega-nerd has his identity stolen by a freakish woman (McCarthy) in Florida, leaving him poor, jailed, and near fired. At the suggestion of police –- nothing here is plausible –- he goes to extradite the woman back to Denver. Again, nonsense. So, bat shit crazy thief Diana (McCarthy) makes our hero’s life hell with boorishness, screaming fits, a sexual romp with a trucker, and more. Bateman’s Sandy -– yes, we girl’s name jokes -– implodes under the hellfire of crassness until … he comes to appreciate Diana for who she really is, a victim worth loving. Look, I laughed to hell many times, especially when McCarthy puts on a shunned wife act, but when the movie goes for big tears with a syrupy ending, I cringed. The film does not deserve it, nor does the audience. Why can’t Diane just stay crass? Also, the violent bounty hunters ... why? C+

“The Heat” pairs her McCarthy against Sandra Bullock, a better foil than Bateman, as two LEOs out to capture a drug lord in a female-heavy spin on “Lethal Weapon.” The plot is inconsequential as director Paul Fieg (“Bridesmaids”) lets the genre staple of mismatched, bickering cops rule the film. McCarthy is a Boston cop with a gift for Riggs-like man-handling, while Bullock as a tight-wad FBI agent is more Joe Friday in “Dragnet.” How the women size one another up, bicker, and then get drunk together is goofy ’80s hilarious, and just when the relationship skates too close to tears, we get riffs on runaway cats and a gory CPR scene to puke by. McCarthy is more interesting with her cop storing an arsenal in her refrigerator, sexually using needy men, and making mincemeat of a john (Tony Hale, marvelously dweeby) cheating on his wife. It’s a role and film many women may cheer: A satire that turns macho man theatrics on their head. To think the studio was scared of financing this. Twits. Of the men, Tom “Biff” Wilson knocks off laughs easily as a “42-year-old” police chief. that said, over length hurts. A-

Mud (2013)

Matthew McConaughey is on a helluva roll recently, leaving behind awful rom-cons with killer takes in “Bernie,” “Lincoln Lawyer,” and now “Mud.” Mud is the name of his character, a man hiding from police and bounty hunters on an ugly speck of an island on the Mississippi River. This is not his story, though. It belongs to Ellis (Tye Sheridan, from “Tree of Life”), a young teen in turmoil as his parents split and he dabbles in the maddening world of young romance. Ellis, with a pal named Neckbone (!), stumble upon Mud, and a testy friendship/mentorship is born as Ellis becomes Mud’s connection to the outside world. I’ll stop there. Watching the plot unfold and big-name actors pop up in small roles is part of the thrill of this drama from writer/director Jeff Nichols (“Take Shelter”). Nichols is on his own roll, making smart films about small-town Americans without making them seem like yocals born to be mocked. Alas, his long climax jumps into the Hollywood rut of a big shootout that plays too loud and ludicrous. Tea Partiers will dig the anti-fed messages. Keep your eyes open for a bank sign at the end. B

The Asphalt Jungle and Armored Car Robbery (both 1950)

All crime films should be made in black and white. (Imagine “Heat” with no colors.) Bearing proof of this are two 1950 heist films that have police on the trail of thieves facing more troubles than jail time in “Armored Car Robbery” and “The Asphalt Jungle.” The former is barely longer than an hour and has a story just worth its likely 10-cent short origin, while the latter is dark, massive, and deep, a classic for the ages. Oh, and it has a very young Marilyn Monroe, before she became Marilyn Monroe. And she is damn good.

“Armored” centers on professional thief Dave Purvis (William Talman), a crook who thrives on his gift of having no attachments, be they emotional or concrete. (De Niro’s “Heat” crook could be this guy’s son.) Purvis heads up the daylight robbery of a (go on, guess) armored truck smack in front of L.A.’s Wrigley Field, kills a cop, and spends the rest of the film avoiding police, ditching his crew six feet under, and doing a piss poor job of cutting strings to the dame (Adele Jergens) he’s screwing. The story is so paper thin and the characters one-dimensional, this registers more as a TV one-shot than a big-screen tale. That said, director Richard Fleischer shows beautiful (and gritty) L.A. locales in bright light and dark shadow, from City Hall to dockyards and motels to working class homes just feet from Wrigley. How much of this exists now? Not much I guess.

Directed by John Houston,“Jungle” is crime noir perfected. Sterling Hayden plays Dix, a “hooligan” who gets hired as the enforcer in a (Chicago?) diamond heist headed by an elderly criminal known as “Doc” (Sam Jaffe). Doc reluctantly trusts the loot fencing to a lawyer named Emmerich (Louis Calhern), and the suit pulls a double cross, with murder and suicide dropping fast as police -– honest and corrupt, each with agendas -– close in. Monroe plays married Emmerich’s lover, and dude has a fetish for her shoes. This film truly broke the mold. See, “Jungle” dared speak reality in 1950, showing thieves as just men who for various reasons -– abandonment or disability -– use crime to survive, and police as willing to let deeds slide for cash. Somehow, maybe just because “Jungle” is so good, Houston survived the flag-waving censors pushing the lie of America as a Mecca of virtue. Dix is tough, brave, fatally obsessed, and the most honest character here. This is gold material, from Emmerich forced to play cards with his wife to the final shot of Hayden among several curious horses. They don’t make them like this anymore. Our loss.

Armored: B / Asphalt: A+

The Place Beyond the Pines (2013)

“The Place Beyond the Pines” is a rare piece of work, a three-act morality crime thriller heavy on family throes, modeled -– in scope, length, and music-heavy beat -- on “Heat,” but subbing tiny New York town called Schenectady (great name!) for sprawling  Los Angeles. Director/co-writer Derek Cianfrance (“Blue Valentine”) casts Ryan Gosling as Luke, a carny motorcycle stuntman who learns that a one-night stand has produced a son. His jailhouse tattoos signify a hard-scrabble life, Luke but sees the Light in that baby boy’s face. But his way to get cash is criminally stupid, and with a crook, we must have a cop. Bradley Cooper is Avery, a law-school grad who drives a squad car. His story is Act 2. Act 3 jumps 15 years to the sons of cop and crook as the youth play out a track the other chapters deftly avoided: a finger-waving melodrama that fails against the previous action, including a true gut-punch shocker. Gosling and Cooper bring their best, and the actors playing the sons –- Emory Cohen and Dane DeHaan -– leap over the cliché roles. “Pines” could have been massive, daring follow-up for Cianfrance, but his need to dispel lessons breaks the spell. B-

Deadfall (2012)

“Deadfall” is a snowy thriller more generic than its title. Eric Bana and Olivia Wilde crack the plot open as Alabama sibling thieves gunning for Canada because all criminals adore good ol’ Canada.

Plans go bad. The couple crashes their ride in wintry Michigan, kill a cop, and split ways, but not before bro eyes sis’s ass. She likes it. Ick. Brother kills a Native American, loses a finger, saves a woman and child from a bad dad, and has a shootout with police. Sister hooks up with an Olympic ex-con (Charlie Hunnam) on the run to his parents (Sissy Spacek and Kris Kristofferson) for Thanksgiving. 

Stick a pack of monks in a room and they’ll guess how this drama -– from Oscar-winning director Stefan Ruzowitzky (“Counterfeiters”) -– will end: Buckets of blood and trite family confessions over turkey. 

Character arcs roam random, but not more than Bana’s accent which starts Forrest Gump goober veers Australian and ends bland American. 

Worst crime: Casting Kate Mara (“127 Hours”) as a deputy marginalized as a useless girl dolt by her sexist peers, then writing her character off as a useless girl dolt. Awful. D

Assault on Precinct 13 (1976)

John Carpenter’s cult-classic, >$100,000-budget action thriller “Assault of Precinct 13” is the parent to all “siege” movies that would come a decade later, including “Die Hard.” Itself a modern re-make of “Alamo”-type flicks, this also was to be set in the West, but Carpenter could not swing the budget. The bare plot: A mysterious pack of gang members attack a L.A. ghetto police station on the eve of its closure, trapping a stalwart African-American officer (Austin Stoker), several women, and convicted felons (including Darwin Joston) inside. “Assault” is a midnight feature that can play as a maybe-zombie film -– the gang members dabble with bowls of blood and are all but suicidal. Deep-thoughts: It’s a post-Vietnam American meltdown, or a satire on 1950s films that celebrated white heroics and all but demeaned blacks, flipped on its, middle finger held out proud. But the heck with deep anything, this is a blazin’ cool cheap “B” flick that excels its origins and is seriously nasty fun. The title, by the way, is infamously wrong. The besieged station is District 13, Precinct 9. “Assault of Precinct 9”? Hmmm. Na. “13.” B+

The Traveler (2010)

The title of horror thriller “The Traveler” means zip. It isn’t about a tourist, or salesman. Instead former film star Val Kilmer plays a Drifter/Stranger/Nobody/Ghost who walks into the police station of a deserted town one Christmas Eve and confesses to the six officers on duty that he is guilty of six murders. He then proceeds to commit his confessions in acts so supernatural you can hear Dana Carvey whisper “Ssssatan.” The deeds -– whippings, hangings, shovel beatings, and suffocating -- are linked to the torture of a suspect by the same officers a year prior. Director Michael Oblowitz cranks down the mood with camera pans down dark hallways, but this is a “Tales from the Crypt” episode stretched to 90 minutes, with violence repeated and slo-mo’d to the point of tedium, hilarity, and eventually disgust. Kilmer is game, but appears uncomfortably overweight. Dude weighs 250, and people are worried about out-running him? The slapped-on title says it all. Why care when the movie makers don’t. C-

End of Watch (2012)

A heap of movie critics (even Ebert) are throwing praise on “End of Watch” -– a visceral, bloody, gut-punch police drama/thriller than goes against the endless grain of cops as corrupt, greedy, psychotic thugs -- as one of the best films of the year. It could have been. Damn it comes close, often with pitch-perfect dialogue, and harshly with haunting violence. But gimmicks from 1999 abound with shaky-cam overload -- times 10.

Dig it James Ellroy style: Jake Gyllenhaal gives his career-best showing (and he’s been good for years, especially in “Jarhead”) as Brian Taylor, a veteran Marine now working a black-and-white on Los Angeles’ toughest streets, South Central, a land of shit streets, crap homes, and closed businesses plagued by poverty, drugs, guns, and the growing power of Mexican drug cartels that know no border. It’s a near Third World, except the bad guys carry gold-plated AK-47s in some sick “Scarface” fantasy world come true. 

Taylor’s partner is Mike Zavala, a Hispanic-American with a wife and 3.5 children, played by Michael Pena. The men are brothers. Not by blood. But the job. Each will take a bullet or more for one another. No questions asked. The men bullshit banter in the squad car in the best movie back-and-forth since “Pulp Fiction,” but when the hammer drops, they are stone silent and careful, especially when they stumble upon a massive crime spree of human-trafficking and other horrors all right under their noses. They also “fight” the “parents,” that is, the Sarge and all the powers-that-be at work, but playfully. Zavala is the settled one, smart and cautious, Taylor is gung-ho and first out of the car.

The film, written and directed by David Ayer (he wrote Training Day”) drops us in this L.A. Story with no escape, and he shows the ugliest scenes –- ghastly murders, grpahic assaults, endless deaths, and child abuse -– with no let up. The settings never smack of a film set, or some obvious stand-in. I have never been to South Central L.A., but this feels real, down to the litter and alleys and bars on house windows. 

But damn it, where Ayer goes maddeningly wrong is in a ridiculous decade-old plot contrivance that has Taylor touting around digital cameras 24/7 to film his life on the job for an art class. (We never see the guy in class, despite his wanting to earn a law degree.) For all the on-the-street realism Ayers constantly pushes, I call “bullshit” on any relatively intelligent officer anywhere in the world, much less South Central L.A., that would enter potential hot spots and crime scenes carrying a freakin’ camera in one mitt and one-handing his side arm in the other. Especially for a Marine such as Taylor. 

Even what little I know as an ex-crime reporter, when entering an unknown location, searching room by room, any police officer keeps his hands, both hands, on his or her weapon because that weapon will save his or her life. Nothing. Else. Matters. Disagree? Ask a cop. Ask a soldier, for that matter. (If your partner chooses a Sony over a Glock, seriously, trade the hell up.) Call it a movie, sure. I get it, fantasy. But, guess what? The soulless gang members also happen to carry around cameras to share their exploits. For art class, too? YouTube? All this “Blair Witch” shaky-cam crap is mixed in with normal cinema capture, from the sky, floor, whatever, after Taylor’s camera is down. 

I dig and appreciate Ayer’s attempts at showing what policemen and women face each day, the gallows humor they (absolutely true) employ to stay sane, and a refusal to show every cop as worse than the bad guys (I’m look at you “Freelancers” and “Safe” and 1,005 other films), but he should have stuffed the gimmicks and played the film straight. This seriously could have been well atop my Top 10 List of the year. But for the gimmicks.

 God bless Pena. A consistently great actor in “Crash” and “The Lincoln Lawyer” and a few dozen other films, he gives an amazingly tough, smart, funny, and humane performance here. His officer is a full human being, jumping off the page. Watch his horrified silent reaction as he comes across a squalid dungeon full of Mexicans held as drug-runner slaves, and, damn, the man deserves an Oscar nomination. And leading man status on par with Gyllenhaal and any other actor out there. B

Freelancers (2012)

Former-drug-dealer-turned-rapper-turned-film-actor 50 Cent aka Curtis Jackson III puts the last of those multi-hyphenates to regrettable use in the awful “Freelancers,” a cops-gone-bad drama that thudded into cinemas and rolled over for dead on DVD within one month. Upfront mystery: How did Robert De Niro and Forrest Whitaker get wrangled into playing depraved NYPD detectives who trade in drugs, murders, and whores on an hourly basis? Jackson plays Malo, ex-crook turned policeman thrown into a corruption ring by his mentor/father figure (De Niro), the former partner of Malo’s real pop, another officer killed years ago. Not a single plot thread or revelation makes remote sense as Malo plays a ridiculous game between police and mafia while balancing several women on the side. Entire sections of this story seem cleaved out to fit a 90-minute running time as we dead end at a finale that has Malo crowing on top of a shit pile not only wholly implausible, but an insulting F.U. lobbed at all law enforcement. I can’t speak of his music, but as an actor here, Jackson has a blank stare reserved for album covers, punctuated by line readings so dull, he seems barely coherent. D-