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Blood Work

(2002)

110 min. Warner Brothers. Director: Clint Eastwood. Cast: Clint Eastwood, Jeff Daniels, Anjelica Huston, Wanda De Jesus, Tina Lifford.

Late-period Clint Eastwood films have a shambling and even loopy quality to them, and Blood Work is no exception. Eastwood has managed to convincingly hold back time for the string of well-produced, offbeat thrillers he's made over the last decade, but this vehicle--the cinematic equivalent of a supermarket paperback--plays like the best-ever episode of Matlock rather than a truly distinguished feature film.

Though highly unlikely, the intriguing gimmick of Blood Work and its thematic extrapolations momentarily offer flashes of novelty. Eastwood plays retired FBI agent Terry McCaleb, the kind of guy killers just love to taunt. McCaleb retired after, in pursuit of a suspect, his heart gave out; now, with a new ticker, he's trying to stay out of trouble. But when the sister (Wanda De Jesus) of his organ donor shows up and asks him to solve her murder, what can squinty Clint do but (guiltily) saddle up once more?

In heart doc Angelica Huston, neighbor Jeff Daniels, and cops Paul Rodriguez and Dylan Walsh, Eastwood has fine support and a reasonable number of suspects lying in wait for the big reveal. Eastwood remains a wholly magnetic personality, and Daniels gets consistent laughs as his "partner" Buddy.

Unfortunately, the twist seems obvious long before it appears, leaving Eastwood to noodle by wanly evoking Vertigo (Clint's end-to-end chest clutching is all build-up with little payoff), drumming up a genuinely disturbing photo-negative dream sequence, and pausing for some nutty humor involving donuts or McCaleb's newfound Mexican heritage (seemingly, a winking reflection of Eastwood's marriage to Dina Ruiz). Even the Eastwood faithful may recoil from the obvious swapping of stuntmen for Clint or the twin affections of not one but two stand-up dames. (Vertigo fans, incidentally, should take note that veteran Henry Bumstead did the production design for both films.)

There's nothing particularly wrong with Eastwood's typically professional and idiosyncratic style, which holds interest even though the formula outweighs the premise. But there's no question that faint praise damns the routine Blood Work.