Emmerich, meanwhile, peddles the rest of the goods handily. Tatum is upstaging these inveterate scene savers and stealers or taking the presidential limousine out for a spin on the Great Lawn for a demolition derby that doubles as a Cadillac commercial, he sells the role and himself with athletic grace and a star’s self-assured charm. Well, he shows her as he swats away villainy in a White House that’s conveniently short of effective guards and surveillance cameras and packed with valuable team players like James Woods, Richard Jenkins, Lance Reddick and the invaluable slow-boiler Jason Clarke.
Willis is 58 Brad Pitt, 49 Will Smith, 44 - which is matched by that of his character, who’s also interviewing for a Secret Service job with a snobby skeptic (Maggie Gyllenhaal).
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Willis into a movie star with “Die Hard.” (Each character has a curly haired woman on the sidelines.) After years of importing British and Australian he-men, Hollywood has another homegrown hero.Īt 33, Mr. Tatum not only wears the same shirt (passed down from Marlon Brando), but he also shares the first name and Everyman earthiness that turned Mr. Tatum’s guileless on-screen persona as he assumes the mantle, or rather the sweat-stained white tank top, once worn by Bruce Willis. There’s a satisfying bluntness to his expediency that complements Mr. James Vanderbilt’s amusingly topical screenplay sets the stage - with, among other details, a new, cooperative Iranian president and a former intelligence whiz gone off the reservation - that Mr. James Mattoon Scott in “Seven Days in May,” this latest crazy believes that he can do better than the president. (Scan the credits to guess who it is.) Like other bug-eyed brethren in patriotism, from Brig. Emmerich’s movie opens, the White House is overwhelmed by heavily armed men taking orders from a boilerplate maniac. The stakes don’t look initially global when, soon after Mr. That, at any rate, seems to be one lesson of recent movies like “Star Trek Into Darkness,” “Man of Steel,” “World War Z” and the bromantic “This Is the End,” which bank on viewers grooving on the spectacle of their symbolic demise: bang, bang - we’re all dead. Then again, nothing says summer studio fun like annihilating violence. Emmerich, who was born in Germany in 1955, is compulsively repeating a historical trauma. Yet as you watch the White House go up in flames - an image that doesn’t provoke the same shock or giggles that it did in his 1996 flick, “Independence Day” - you may wonder if every time he blows or burns something up, Mr.
Maybe he just likes playing with matches. Once again, for reasons best left to him and his therapist, he has created a pop diversion about the near-destruction of the world. “White House Down,” the latest conflagration from that master blaster Roland Emmerich, is as demented and entertaining as promised, and a little less idiotic than feared.
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