Editor’s Note: This was originally published for FANGORIA on February 16, 2007, and we’re proud to share it as part of The Gingold Files.
By this point, there have been enough good movies spawned from the pages of Marvel, DC et al. that to use “comic-book” as a negative adjective no longer seems valid. The Spider-Man and X-Men films, Batman Begins, etc. have showcased more complex characterizations and heartfelt emotion than many of Hollywood’s “serious dramas” in recent years, proving it is possible to balance mega-FX spectacle with a human touch. That’s why there’s no excuse for an expensive-looking but dramatically inert product like Ghost Rider, in which a lot more care seems to have gone into visually rendering the title character than to plausibly dramatizing what makes him tick.
I’m not familiar with the Rider’s comic incarnation, but what’s on screen, as written and directed by Daredevil’s Mark Steven Johnson, is a variation on the Faust story (which receives an onscreen shout-out in this film). Johnny Blaze is a young motorcycle stunt rider who’s approached by Mephistopheles (Peter Fonda, not having enough fun with the role) just after he has discovered that his father is dying of cancer. The devil, who’s on the prowl for someone to recruit as the latest in his series of Ghost Rider henchmen, does some sweet-talking, and soon Johnny has signed a “Pactum Pactorum” trading his soul for Dad’s life.
Of course, Old Scratch has a nasty trick up his sleeve, which causes Johnny to become…well, it’s hard to say, because as written and played by Nicolas Cage as an adult, the character is an uncentered collection of moods and attitudes, lacking an intensity or focus that could hook an audience along for the ride. Sometimes he adopts the fatalistic attitude of a man plagued by a curse, at others he’s a goofball doing bike stunts to win back long-lost girlfriend Roxanne (Eva Mendes) and at others he swaggers like Elvis, with “offbeat” habits like eating jellybeans from martini glasses or listening to Carpenters music while watching monkey videos. These quirks substituting as character traits extend to the supporting roles as well; Roxanne is seen at one point consulting a Magic 8 Ball, but Johnson never even gives us the insert shot of its response.
He also apparently hasn’t learned since Daredevil that a superhero movie is only as good as its villain, and that the bad guys need more screen time than he seems willing to give them. The malefactor here is Mephistopheles’ son Blackheart (Wes Bentley), who seeks to take over hell and create it on Earth as well. Apparently unable to exert his own parental discipline, the devil calls in Johnny’s marker, sending him out to stop his wayward child in the flaming-skulled guise of Ghost Rider. But the central conflict between the literally fire-powered adversaries is halfhearted and underdeveloped. “We’re not gonna have a meaningful conversation, I guess,” Blackheart tells Johnny early on, and sadly, he’s right. There’s no heat (pardon the pun) to their conflict, and Blackheart and his trio of minions—earth, air and water elementals in human form—are absent for long stretches of screen time.
For her part, Roxanne is also a largely functional role, as she shows up mostly to inspire Johnny to bouts of soul-searching. It doesn’t help that both performances are lackluster; Bentley seems more a petulant child than an aspiring world-conqueror, and Mendes comes off as pallid rather than passionate (not to mention that she’s in the kind of movie that accompanies Johnny and Roxanne’s first adult kiss with a cow reaction shot). And when Blackheart and Roxanne’s subplots converge, it’s in exactly the way you expect them to, exactly the way villains and girlfriends have interacted from the beginning of cinema.
Also on hand is an especially grizzled Sam Elliott as a graveyard keeper who’s handy for exposition, which unfortunately contains as many contradictions as reasonable explanations, and David Roberts as a police captain whose officers attempt to either bring in or shoot down Ghost Rider, never seeming fazed by the fact that their quarry has a flaming skull where his head should be. The special FX are appropriately eye-popping, and as lavish and expensive as a big Hollywood budget can buy, as the Rider and his blazing cycle roar up and over buildings and he wields a fiery chain like a bullwhip. But no amount of eye candy can make up for the hollowness at this movie’s core. “This is how legends are born,” Elliott’s voiceover intones as the story closes; substitute “franchises” for “legends” and stir in a bit of wishful thinking, and you’ll have what seems to be the true inspiration for this movie’s existence.
