Decisions

I’m not sure if it was the stunt-riding-motorcyclist-cum-hitman or the magical, transmogrifying crackhead, but there was a point while watching Jensen LeFlore’s Decisions that I knew I was watching something so bad it had entered rarefied air. This is a special kind of inept, the kind that should’ve been buried beneath the remains of a plundered, abandoned Blockbuster, only to be seen by those with a masochistic streak.

This isn’t to say Decisions enters the realm of so-bad-it’s-good camp. It doesn’t. Instead, it’s a parade of really awful ideas, pointless dialogue, aimless plotting—and a supernatural crack addict. The premise is that a group of friends who decide to rob a bank, and end up with a mobster’s money-filled briefcase. Some people die, some people don’t, and there’s a goofy car chase in between, all in an effort to demonstrate the dangers of making bad decisions. Decisions is little more than 89-minutes of shoddy morality play while the irony that this entire movie is one heaping bad decision seems to be lost on everyone involved.

Really, this trashy movie—in its heart of hearts—just wants to follow along the path of hard-edged, violent, R-rated crime dramas made by people like Scorsese and Tarantino, while dually missing why those directors’ films are memorable in the first place: Violence and vulgarity get you nowhere without a bit of acumen or style. From a technical standpoint, this thing’s a mess, starting with the painfully slipshod editing and spiraling down to an audio mix that makes the dialogue nearly incomprehensible. If there were reason to be forgiving of the film’s faults, you could say that Decisions looks and feels like it was cobbled together. But it clearly wasn’t cobbled; it was more forcefully squished into an object resembling a movie.

Here the more inquisitive readers might ask, “If it’s that bad, why is this dumb movie even out in theaters?” Well, Decisions is the late Corey Haim’s final film. As a tribute to the man, the makers managed to bamboozle some gullible theater chains into running this blob of a movie. Nothing says “loving tribute” like turning someone’s death into a business opportunity. The kind thing to do would’ve been to launch every copy of this movie—and the last legacy of Haim’s final, abrasive performance—in a rocket aimed directly at the sun. But that kind of dignity isn’t to be found here, adding a touch of rubbernecking morbidity to an already disastrous film. Rated R for violence, pervasive language, some drug use and sexual content.