Trap (2024)

Watched 8/4/24 (theater)

Much like the beloved popstar at its center, Trap hits some audacious high notes. Its star seasons every interaction with a dynamic mixture of black comedy and suspense, and its director knows how to place the camera in the kind of off-kilter positions that are a perfect match for the adrenaline rush that unfolds. With all of that power at the movie's disposal, it's a bit of a trap itself that Josh Hartnett and a great shot list aren’t always quite enough to rescue M Night Shyamalan’s latest from a script that was in need of several punch-ups. Trap makes more than a handful of commendably ambitious swerves in its back half, but none of those moves provide satisfying payoffs to a first half that magnetically introduces us to the world’s goofiest serial killer dad.

Goofy. Serial killer. Dad. Josh Hartnett's aptly-named Cooper is one of the most purely amusing characters of the year. Hartnett, a now 25+ year vet of elevating average scripts, not only nails the murderous, dead-eyed psychopath, but so convincingly layers the kind-hearted innocence of the girl-dad-of-the-year on top of it that you can't help but root for him, even as we discover his darker impulses. There's a hilariously ironic patient streak to the character that shines through each half of the dual role, keeping the audience off-balance as you wait for Cooper to snap, whether it be at a police officer or an FBI sniper or even his own daughter.

The setup is exactly what it sounds like. A dad takes his daughter to a concert and it turns out that the police are hunting him there. He needs to get out without allowing the daughter character to see through his ruse. This section of the film is where Shyamalan is at his best, shooting Hartnett into the stratosphere. Don't get it twisted; Hartnett is still elevating M Night's trademark pedestrian dialogue and other strange M Night-isms in the script. But there's a wealth of giddy filmmaking choices here, with an emphasis on intense closeups for maximum dramatic irony.

And in the same ruthlessly humorous way that con men crews such as the Ocean's gang, the Wedding Crashers duo, and the Dirty Rotten Scoundrels pair tell us all of their dark truths before venturing into escalating dramatic irony, Hartnett's Cooper becomes a one-man wrecking crew of insane close calls in similar high-stakes situations. The recipe for disaster is cooked just right inTrap’s main event—deeply silly jumps in narrative convenience and an outlandish sense of desperation mount as the walls close in on our main character.

It's a big, rowdy, neon concert full of police, FBI, and thousands of screaming, teenage females. The physical concert design is well-realized, the music is catchy enough (courtesy of nepotism from M Night's real-life daughter with what turns into a surprisingly large role), and all of the supporting characters bounce off of Hartnett with a knowing sense of acerbity. And in the midst of all the female-dominant chaos of this concert, juxtaposing the awkward tension of an outwardly-clueless, inwardly-sinister 45-year-old man provides a very distinct canvas of standout physical humor and unique interactions. Watching Cooper lie his ass off time and time again before snapping back into dad mode makes for really compelling drama and hilarious situational comedy.

But... But, but, but. The moment that the film leaves the concert, it leaves the focused perspective of its main character and the comfort of its most lively set. Trap takes on a more fractured, episodic quality that splits time between too many characters and too many set pieces that never reach rewarding crescendos. The script, penned solely by Shyamalan, goes in genuinely surprising directions. But the filmmaking loses its grip on the tense confinements of earlier plot points, in part due to the script taking on more of a make-it-up-as-we-go quality. A few character beats are set up without being followed through on, and a few characters are straight-up left in the dust. This final 30+ minutes really could have used a rewrite from a good co-writer; Shyamalan needed a script doctor here to cure the illnesses of this final stretch.

However strained it becomes, though, Trap frequently finds ways to rest back on its star's capable shoulders. Hartnett's Cooper consistently gets opportunities to yell, sweat, twitch, and perform every other tick you would expect from a serial killer unbeknownst to his wife and kids. The unwieldy writing decisions are outweighed by the fun that Hartnett is having just enough to recommend the film, despite its faults. That performance and the palpable highs of Trap's first half give Shyamalan's latest the juice it needs to tiptoe past its late-game, inelegant missteps. Perhaps M Night's next studio-funded experience will incur the much-needed wrath of a co-writer to straighten out inconsistencies. And perhaps Hartnett's much-deserved renaissance will continue to gain steam. I certainly hope so, on both counts.

6.5/10