February 8 - 15, 1 9 9 6

WHITE SQUALL

When traveling by boat, there are a number of rules to which I adhere steadfastly: avoid fried foods; try not to fall overboard; and don't, under any circumstances, sail aboard a vessel called the Albatross. Unfortunately, Cap'n Sheldon (Jeff Bridges), his exquisite wife (the exquisite Caroline Goodall), his crewman (John Savage), and the juvenile crew (sundry juveniles) of the good ship Albatross do not share my concern.

Based on a true story, White Squall chronicles the ups and downs (and ups and downs, ups and downs) of the ship and its crew as they set sail on a journey of discovery, self and otherwise. The adventure begins in the early '60s, back when parents were prepared to let their smooth-faced boys board portentously named ships in the name of character building. The boys, snot-nosed types all, are being sent out on the rickety skiff in order to learn some life lessons, which of course they do admirably.

Besides all the Stand by Me (or Swim by Me) camaraderie, there's also the small matter of the treacherous voyage. Director Ridley Scott (Alien, Blade Runner, Thelma and Louise) captures all the sublime power and vastness of the ocean: like some fickle deity, the water is benign one minute, abominable the next -- glistening azure beneath a cloudless sky, or churning apocalyptically, often making me seasick. A Waterworld with heart, this film has sequences that are alone worth the price of a ticket. When the crew comes ashore, the scenery is breathtaking.

Jeff Bridges is suitably captain-like: enigmatic, sage, deep-voiced, firm-but-fair. But John Savage seems to have studied "Ahab for Beginners" in formulating his seadog role. And Scott Wolf (Party of Five) as Chuck Geig, provider of the gooey narrative, is, not to put too fine a point on it, crap. The boys are often funny and touching, but as with so many Hollywood pictures of this type, White Squall keeps falling victim to The Little House on the Prairie syndrome -- the boys open their hearts to one another like an enthused psychotherapy group, and their faces are as often soggy with tears as with brine.

Finally, tragedy strikes the Albatross (surprise!), and the film descends into the most tepid courtroom melodrama. Chuck makes the perfunctory impassioned speech on behalf of the "Skipper," and there is much hugging and sobbing. As it happens, the return to dry land is the wettest part of the movie, and the most nauseating. At the Copley Place, the Fresh Pond, and the Circle and in the suburbs.

-- Chris Wright