Kiss of Death

directed by Barbet Schroeder

starring David Caruso, Nicholas

Cage, Samuel L. Jackson, and Helen Hunt

at Sony Harvard Square

Avid fans of "NYPD Blue," still reeling from David Caruso's smug betrayal, (forget that Jimmy Smits has been excellent) would have been happy to see his film career flounder. But with the release of "Kiss Of Death," Caruso's career, unfortunately, should take off. Directed by Barbet Schroeder ("Single White Female" and "Reversal of Fortune") and starring Caruso, Nicholas Cage and Samuel L. Jackson, "Kiss Of Death" is a powerful modern interpretation of film noir.

Loosely based on the 1947 film of the same name, writer Richard Price has added several dimensions to this version, while leaving the main plot intact. The film centers around excrook Jimmy Kilmartin (Caruso), who ends up caught between a corrupt Distcrict Attorney and an unforgiving mobster. Kilmartin, at the pleading of his cousin Ronnie, is coerced into driving a tuckload of stolen cars across Manhattan to an awaiting freighter. It is hard to forget the bizarre sight of four brightly lit trucks barreling through the streets of Manhattan. When the cops arrive on the scene, the rest of the drivers flee leaving Kilmartin to take the fall.

With a family to worry about and his life at stake, Kilmartin is forced to cooperate with the police. Infiltrating the same organization that masterminded the stolen car operation, Kilmartin befriends the boss, Little Junior (Cage). As an insane mobster, Cage gives the performance of his life. The cop assigned to oversee Kimartin's undercover work in the mob, Calvin (Jackson), is the same one who caught a bullet under the eye when Kilmartin was arrested. Having lost control of his tear duct, Calvin totes a hankerchief to dab his incessantly watering eye.

This tense set-up could easily have been bobbled by a less accomplished director or compromised by a less talented cast. But "Kiss of Death's" ensemble succeeds magnificantly. The same vulnerable machoness which brought Caruso accolades on "NYPD Blue" works perfectly here. Few actors could have balanced the ruggedness of his character with the poignancy of the situation. Someday his gritty, New Yorker persona could get tired, but until then this style can't be slighted.

While this film is obviously Carouse's vehicle, it is Cage who drives off with it. Quite simply he is the most inherently entertaining actor in film today. Thankfully, his taste for material is sometimes as brilliant as his acting. His Little Junior is nuts, but like Kilmartin, has a human side which is especially charismatic. Every time the asthmatic Little Junior reaches for his gold-plated inhaler one can almost forget about the men he has bludgeoned to death.

As the crying Calvin, Samuel L. Jackson continues his streak of blistering performances. Yes, he was amusing in "Pulp Fiction," but here, when character is rooted in reality, he is even more effective. Calvin is a cop even John Kelly would appreciate.

With three stunning performances this film would have been good--with six it's great. Helen Hunt of "Mad About You" as Kilmartin's wife demonstrates that a film career is hers for the taking, and Michael Rapaport oozes sleaze as Ronnie. This character is such a jerk that it's almost possible to forgive Little Junior for beating the pulp out him.

Ronnie's foil is Kilmartin's baby sitter, Rosie (Katheryn Erbe). It would be easy to choke on this character's banal perfection, but Erbe somehow manages to flesh out a real person. While Rosie is usually too good to take, we are nevertheless swayed by Erbe's performance. Also noteworthy is Ving Rhames, who people may recognize as the band-aid wearing Marsalis from "Pulp Fiction." Here, like Jackson, he thrives on material more sophisticated than Tarantino's comicbook style.

David Caruso is not the only "NYPD Blue" influence here, as Barbet Schroeder would probably admit. The cool, super real look of the film is reminiscnent of the television show. Schroeder's touch, like the skewed camera angles, is noticeable. But his main priority is to free the actors and let the story tell itself. After a superfluous opening shot, Schroeder settles down, letting Price's script come through.

"Kiss of Death" is at its best when the feel of New York City penetrates the screen. At times, it may seem as if the pungent odor of the East River permeates the theater. The reality of the film is obviously aided by Price's year-long immersion into the billion dollar stolen car industry of New York and New Jersey. With the exception of the ending, which is too neat and tidy even by Hollywood's standards, Price's work has never been better.

It would be unfair not to mention the talented cinematographer, Luciano Tavoli, and production designer, Mel Bourne, whose impacts on the film are crucial. New York is never as believable in color as it is in black and white, but rarely does it come across this well. From the vast auto yard in Queens to the perfect strip club, 'Baby Cakes,' New York has never looked more like, well, New York.

When Little Junior asks Kilmartin to come up with an acronym to define his life (Little Junior's is B.A.D.), Kilmartin replies, "F.A.B.--Fucked At Birth." "Kiss of Death" needs no acronym. This film can stand on its own.