Ridley Scott's ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD brings back the 1973 J.P. Getty III kidnapping

Overlong, ham-fisted, tiresome and melodramatic, ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD is but the latest in a long line of Hollywood product that takes an ugly and sensational real-life incident and turns it into schlock entertainment. As directed with his increasingly heavy hand by Ridley Scott and written by David Scarpa (from the book by John Pearson), the movie gives us the kidnapping and lengthy imprisonment of the grandson of the then-world's-richest-man, John Paul Getty and lets us wallow in it, even as the young Getty's mom does all she can to convince the kid's grand-dad to cough up the ransom money.

As per usual -- of late, at least -- with his woeful returns to the Alien franchise (Prometheus and Covenant) and his hugely overlong The Martian, Mr. Scott (shown at left) dawdles and extends when brevity and crispness are most called for. His new movie, which lasts 132 minutes, could easily have dispensed with twenty or more of those and turned out all the better for their loss.

Most annoying, however, are the melodramatic touches that dot the film -- note the early morning scene outside the Getty estate with the delivery of those newspapers -- culminating in a supposedly exciting will-he-survive? finale that simply reeks of this-never-happened Hollywood contrivance.

Random moviegoers, who pay any attention to those reams of trailers thrust upon audiences prior to the movie we've come to see, may recall a particular trailer for this film that starred Kevin Spacey as the older Getty. Gosh: How come Christopher Plummer (above and below) is up there on screen in the same role now? Well, even though the movie was ready for release earlier this year, once the current sexual predator scandal engulfed Spacey, a series of reshoots -- probably the most lengthy and expensive in the history of modern Hollywood -- was done so that the film could be released without any "taint." Which simply adds a new layer of sleaze to the whole enterprise.

Does anyone else out there find this idea of "disappearing" a performer seem like something out of Stalinist Russia? Sure, Spacey, the man, ought to be pilloried for his actions, but his terrific array of acting over decades now ought to remain untouched.

All the Money in the World is certainly not a complete loss. Plummer is very good, as the man of the year that moviegoers will hate the most. And as young Getty's mother, Michelle Williams (above) gives yet another of her wonderfully lived-in, every-moment-real performances. She's a pleasure to watch, as always. Mark Wahlberg (below, center right), more tamped down than usual and in a much less "heroic" mold, proves adequate, too, though audiences expecting more action out of him may be disappointed.

The story itself is interesting and fraught with enough tension to keep most viewers occupied, even if the cannier among them may do some eye-rolling at the coincidence that pops up now and again. The movie sticks at least somewhat close enough to what happened in this kidnapping to keep those of us who remember it semi-satisfied. (It certainly makes Italy of that day look like a heap of criminally connected sewage, including even certain small town police departments.) Charlie Plummer, below and consistently beleaguered, is as good as he's allowed to be in the role of victim. Overall, however, this movie seems very nearly unnecessary.

From Sony/TriStar Pictures, All the Money in the World opened nationwide this past week and is probably playing in your area. Click here to find the theater(s) nearest you.

Catching up with some hoped-to-be Oscar bait: THE COUNSELOR

Truth be told, THE COUNSELOR was one of those films that TrustMovies planned to wait for on Blu-ray. But the article by Scott Foundas in Variety claiming that this might be Ridley Scott's best, certainly his best in years, peaked my interest to the point that I forked over some cash while up in Newport, RI, to take a look. Forget Ridley Scott. Whatever he could do and did for the film is puny compared to the manner in which the dialog, written by Cormac McCarthy, torpedoes the entire project. This is possibly the worst screenplay I have ever encountered. As it is one of the few actually written by the Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist himself, rather than adapted by others (Ted Tally on All the Pretty Horses, the Coens on No Country for Old Men; Joe Penhall on The Road, with that last, for my money, the best of the three), I think we can safely suggest that Mr. McCarthy stay away -- far away -- from motion picture dialog. Please.

What's wrong with the talk? Plenty. First, you might find one person out of everyone you know who speaks like this -- constantly with the philosophizing until it could drive you nuts. But when another person and another and another continues this "trend," you either start with the guffaws or run screaming from the theater. At the point, late in the film, where a simple Mexican hotel clerk begins doing this same thing, a couple of folk sitting behind us in the very empty theater waked out. We stayed, if only to learn how much worse things could get.

When Mamet, Pinter and Tarantino (to use three examples Foundas puts forth) write "stylized" dialog, there is more at work than an author who seems to love best the sound of his own voice. (True with the first two examples, at least.) And that dialog tends to sounds pretty real, too, however stylized it is, particularly when acted by the kind of professionals familiar with the ins and outs of Pinter and Mamet. It also always serves to push the plot along. When McCarthy does it, he brings everything to a dead halt. And the verbiage does not seem remotely believable -- unless these folk are having their discussion in some kind of weird philosophy class. But no, they're here in this movie, which is set somewhere on the Texas/Mexico border, and involves, yes, drug deals again. Doesn't it sometimes seem that nothing exists in the mind of mainstream movie-makers (independents, too, for that matter) except big-time drug deals -- most of them gone wrong, of course.

This movie is appalling. And not because there is anything wrong with having a very dark view of our world. I have one myself. But stacking the deck this heavily seems unnecessary at best -- if you indeed believe in what you're saying and doing -- and kind of sleazy at worst. The film also rather heavy-handedly adheres to the old Chekov gun theory, this time updating same with the "bolito," a particularly disgusting form of murder which we hear described and know full well that, before the film finishes, we'll get to see it in action.

The Counselor is very violent, technicolor noirish, and ugly -- with, as often happens in McCarthiana, the worst man (or woman) the winner. The A-list cast is certainly fun and pretty to watch. Michael Fassbender, this year's go-to guy for most everything, looks good and philosophizes nicely; Javier Bardem (above, left) looks silly as anything and philosophizes nuttily; Brad Pitt (at left, three photos up) looks smooth, svelte and western and philosophizes happily; Cameron Diaz is aging pretty well and philosophizes with a slight accent that seems to come and go; and Penélope Cruz, looking warm and lovely, doesn't much philosophize at all (so we like her best).

There's a pair of cheetahs, a convoluted plot that doesn't much matter, and a number of heads rolling off their bodies (someone rather important to this movie clearly has a fetish for decapitation). If you go in for that sort of thing, you'll likely to be in seventh heaven. Now that I think of it, this movie might be pretty spectacular -- if nasty -- should you decide to watch it with earplugs firmly in place.