'Don't say a Word'...you've been warned

Don't Say a Word is a generic thriller. Make that an uninspired thriller. A by-the-numbers, clichéd kidnapper-thriller that openhandedly delights in the kind of brutality, violence, and torture that seem disastrously inappropriate in the wake of recent events. Michael Douglas' new vehicle, which has the double misfortune of both a Manhattan setting and a title reminiscent of an R.L. Stine novel, is the kind of movie that Hollywood cranks out mechanically in hopes that audiences will blindly accept ludicrously improbable and conveniently unclear plot twists and coincidences.

Based on Andrew Klavan's book by the same name, Don't Say a Word is the story of New York psychiatrist Nathan Conrad, whose precociously obnoxious eight-year-old daughter is kidnapped on Thanksgiving Day by a trio of ex-heisters. The villains, led by a super-evil criminal who just happens to sport the prerequisite foreign accent required of all evil-doers in these high-action suspense movies, demand that Conrad somehow extract a six-digit mystery number hidden within the damaged psyche of an institutionalized mental patient, Elizabeth Burrows (Brittany Murphy). Evidently, 10 years ago, Burrow's father was working with the kidnappers but cheated them in the theft of a $10 million ruby. He ended up dead, an event that his now-traumatized daughter witnessed, while his associates in crime were imprisoned and the location of the prized ruby remains buried in the mind of the haunted woman.

Even more forced than the plot line is the speed with which Douglas' character earns Elizabeth's trust. No doctor has ever been able to effectively treat this patient in her 10 years of hospitalization, but Conrad, under a ridiculously contrived 5 p.m. time limit imposed by the kidnappers, succeeds in hours. Presumably, this time restriction would have prevented either character from developing any sort of relationship with the other. In an incongruous leap of faith, however, Conrad miraculously treats the highly fragile and deceptively manipulative Elizabeth with the aid of some of his daughter's favorite toys. It seems similarly bizarre that Elizabeth has remained hospitalized for the better half of her 18 years simply out of fear of her father's aggressors, given that they spent the last decade in prison.

Equally absurd is the complexity of the villain's plan—which includes the planting of surveillance and phone tapping equipment so advanced it would make James Bond and Ethan Hunt weep—in both a highly secured psychiatric ward and the bedroom of our champion Conrad and his beautiful but immobilized wife (Famke Janssen). How and when was the surveillance set up? What is the purpose of the 5 p.m. deadline? Why is Michael Douglas always paired with incredibly attractive younger women? Don't Say a Word, with its unoriginal and undeveloped plot, fails to answer these questions.

The lapses in logic continue in an outwardly irrelevant side story that follows a homicide detective (Jennifer Esposito) in investigating the death of a young woman found in the Hudson River. Esposito's character ultimately offers some (albeit little) aid to our hero during the film's climax, but like Janssen and Oliver Platt, who plays Douglas' former coworker and Elizabeth's regular psychiatrist, she is mostly extraneous to the plot. Janssen's character, in fact, adds nothing to the storyline save a allusion to Hitchcock's Rear Window and a disturbing but thankfully brief sponge-bath scene with her aged husband.

Douglas, who has fared better in his past few films (Traffic, Wonder Boys), is unconvincing in his role as Nathan Conrad. His interaction with his family is overly saccharine, his use of psychobabble in outwitting his nemesis almost laughable; he projects the air of a sleazy uncle. We know that he means well, we know that he's harmless, but we just don't trust him. If you need to satisfy a Douglas fetish, you're much better off renting the perversely entertaining Fatal Attraction than spending time and money on his latest. Brittany Murphy, playing yet another institutionalized patient (see Girl Interrupted) does a decent job in her portrayal of Elizabeth Burrows. However, she is far more interesting in her initial lunacy, replete with physical tics and psychotic screaming, than in her later "cured" compassion.

Director Gary Fleder's artistic vision fails on most every count. He attempts to create an atmosphere thick with tension, but even the macabre tone, depressing photography, and threatening music do little to surmount the movie's logistical shortcomings. He may lengthen his resume but the result is an unfortunate viewing experience.

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