“It’s about a man but here’s the twist; he’s on a ledge,” said the unimaginative producer that managed to pitch this bizarre idea to some studio executives. Movies with titles so bereft of connotation or meaning are treated a certain way by Hollywood. On set, the studio
pimps probably cackle at the ridiculousness of every scene and with every look of derision, chomp on their cigars and mutter “They get paid; they know what’s going to happen.” These B list actors know the deal.
Besides, this is all they can do to avoid being nailed on a casting couch and being like those dirty extras. Of course, upon reading the script, Elizabeth Banks was unlikely to have strode up and down her living room rehearsing her Oscar acceptance speech. Instead, she probably thought about her mortgage and how this flick could help with that. The fact this reviewer kept thinking “Oh, she’s that actress in that thing” is a problem that’s going to have to wait till after the pay cheque’s been delivered.
Yet for all this apparent criticism, Man on a Ledge is a film that society needs. For one, it is really enjoyable in the same sort of way that a bar fight is. The way that Sam Worthington’s accent displays no serious intent at eliminating his Australian twang. The way the film edges to its inevitable climax with every formulaic trick thrown in for good measure to make sure it’s long enough to not warrant people asking for their money back. It’s an anthropological curiosity that you can’t turn your head away from, an indigestion tablet that neutralises all the remotely intellectual or complex aspects of life. Give me my pills.