Despite the ostensible fact that John Stockwell’s estrogen-fuelled sports apologue, Blue Crush, has the oblong rudiments bred by the mainstream’s old-hat factory, there’s a certain quirkiness and persistence that keeps it poles apart of pure ludicrous chestnuts. In doing so, likeability and entertainment can seep through a powerfully decayed yarn, turn its head from truism, and present a rather nice formulation composed of epic camera work and absorbing young performances. Unfortunately its recollection of the archaic and worn is long overdue, and it (seemingly) obliviously mires its rather heart-felt script with guises to shadow the passé formula, but often this is too obvious and surprisingly enough, disheartening.
The youthful factions of “outsider” sports, often times dubbed “extreme”, basically break down into thus: skaters, roller-bladers (although not really), bicyclists, and surfers. Though lately it’s become mashed into a uniformed conglomeration, sometimes holding Skaters most popular. But then again the bloc’s locale is most important for climate, culture and lifestyle are the chief factors in persuasion of the younglings. And in its own slightly inane way, Blue Crush is a study of an outfit of the surfer sect; revolving around the trials and tribulations that squander an aspiring surfer’s dreams. That Stockwell can manage to squeeze out the minutest fragments of entertainment and emotion from the dry stone that is the plot, utters something in Blue Crush’s girlish favor.
Though this “extreme sports melodrama” is the pinnacle of the small-time-nobody-dreaming-of-being-pro variety, and it does feature some surprisingly captivating performances, the ultimate feeling can be quite dry and indifferent. The warm and humble casting of the cute but not excessively gorgeous Kate Bosworth adds some fascinating realism to the whole familiar pot, crossed with a highly laudable visual genius. Though it contains some decidedly amazing moments, they’re stuck between a half-baked, teen-heart-street treatise and lengthened sequences that pay too much needless homage to the misogynist, jack-session-inducing Baywatch. However, comprehensively enlightening and provoking are the scenes that empower the strong female characters, resplendently echoing on an anti-misogynist subtext.
Leading the troupe of sturdy femininity is the engaging Anne Marie (Bosworth), sort of the matriarch of a “family” of surfer girls who live to scale the belligerent and massive waves of their native Maui. Aside from Anne Marie, who aspires to be a professional surfer, the group consists of the chatty companion Lena (Sanoe Lake), the friend-living-vicariously-through-Anne-Marie named Eden (the frown-browed Michelle Rodriguez), and the adolescent Penny (Mika Boorem) caught in the wake of teenage rebellion. The three older girls are, however, more mature; and have learned from their mistakes and respectively “suffer” the consequences through a daily routine at the local mega-Motel, working as maids and, if it weren’t for the PG-13 rating, probably something further degrading.
But when not working or going to school the girls practice, in full, their beloved hobby, and contend with virulent, macho sexual beings known as “locals.” The locals also despise any foreign trespassers on their secret beaches and attack them with hostile xenophobic tendencies, and so it doesn’t quite help Anne Marie’s situation when members of an unnamed pro football team arrive at the hotel for a little raucous R & R. Though most of their antics amuse Anne Marie she finds herself in a bewildering problem when she falls in love with the quarterback, Matt (Matthew Davis), while she trains for an upcoming surf competition. The problem lies in that the relationship’s nature is one of a hazy one-night stand and it appears to be getting in the way of everything she’s worked for, regarding a surfing career.
Particularly effective is the romantic relationship between Anne Marie and quarterback Matt, which could have been horrifically bad in light of recent Nickelodeon romances. Appealing as the story is there’s nary a moment of condensed familiarity and obligatory outcomes, the ending is particularly peculiar. Completely and utterly shameless in it’s posturing of cataclysmic, mainstream hymns, which may hint at either bravery or stupidity, polishes the film’s propensity for the superficial gloss of the material. Otherwise the film is a formulaic but festive romp through the sea.
Devoid of the unctuous filth that plagues most agonizing teen sports films, Blue Crush is a merry reworking of the mindless surf movie In God’s Hands and the classics like The Endless Summer and Big Wednesday. Unfortunately, sycophantic to executives and attention-waned juveniles the film is superfluous and redundant with extended surfing sequences equipped with extraneous but brilliant camera work, though the shots are more in tune to the hi-jinks of monotonic promotional surf videos. It isn’t that I find surfing particularly dull but this film is obviously attempting to shabbily glorify the surfer lifestyle tactlessly, with the pretension of a Nike commercial. But in regards to the bikini-sporting poster, male chauvinists will be sorely misled and disappointed by the poignantly sweet and female-friendly fairy tale.