The Karate Kid

Editorial

Let's be honest: 1984's The Karate Kid is no masterpiece, though it's generally considered one of that decade's sacred pop culture texts. Directed by Rocky's John G. Avildsen, the tale of a poor white teen's triumphant revenge on local bullies indulged freely in every underdog sports movie cliché in the book. It was a sloppy picture held together by a handful of iconic moments; but what moments they were. Few will forget Pat Morita's Mr Miyagi instructing his student to "wax on, wax off" and pinching a fly with chopsticks, or Daniel-san's cheesy, climactic crane-kick to his opponent. The relationship between student and mentor was organic; in short, the movie had something you can't fake - heart to spare - ensuring it a lasting place in audiences' affections.

By contrast, this aggressively cynical remake, executive-produced by its star's parents Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith, and nominally directed by Harald Zwart (The Pink Panther 2), illustrates that all the money thrown at it has the effect of erasing the original's humble charm. It's a bloated, telegraphed imitation that, at two-and-a-half hours, would have overstayed its welcome - if only it were welcome in the first place.

The insurmountable problem here is the leading man. Jaden Smith may have potential, but he's yet to grow into his dad's particular brand of smug charisma. Where the original's Ralph Macchio felt genuinely beaten down, Smith's Dre is all boasts and attitude from the outset, meaning it's difficult to endorse him as any kind of underdog. Twelve but looking seven, Smith is also subjected to some outright creepy shots in which he appears all oiled up with glistening torso, while Zwart films a pre-teen make-out in sleazy silhouette, smoke and light flooding locked lips as shadow puppets slow grind. Seriously, we didn't just make that up.

If the film does have an underdog it's Jackie Chan, who delivers the only passable performance in the ersatz Miyagi role of curmudgeonly mentor with a soft centre. It's a straight part for the veteran action star (an odd choice given his inherent comedic ability), and he works to the best of what the filmmakers allow. Unfortunately, this extends to blubbering through a laughably mawkish backstory and acting out pages of dialogue that feel like temp notes the writer forgot to replace with the final lines. The famous "wax on, wax off" scene is switched for something so inept that it exists merely for the sake of difference, and second-hand platitudes - "Oh I get it, you're like Yoda and I'm like a Jedi," Dre tells Han - attempt to compensate for a lack of legitimate student-teacher chemistry. Relocating the story to China means the Han/Miyagi character's cultural displacement is also lost, and the film's casual racism - played in a Romeo And Juliet subplot - passes without comment.

It's a testament to the strength of the original concept that, despite the remake's many faults, the underlying story still manages to register some emotion. When The Karate Kid finally gets down to the business of the kung-fu tournament the movie abruptly takes off, albeit two hours and so much padding later. (Note that there's no actual karate involved in the film, but "kung-fu" would have messed with the brand and, presumably, audience's intelligence levels.) These sequences - with genuine bone-crunching kicks jazzed by some absurd CGI acrobatics and a belching classic rock soundtrack - distil the movie's excess to its essential rivalry. The energy and rhythm of the tournament will appeal to new fans and even rekindle nostalgia for the old film, and Smith at last gets to prove there's star quality in that tiny frame.

Sad that this entertaining montage arrives after such swollen and mechanically sentimental drama. The film's ultimate redundancy is probably best demonstrated by its witless appropriation of Pat Morita's comedic fly-and-chopstick moment from the original. Winking at that scene, Zwart has Chan trying to catch the fly with chopsticks - only to crush the insect with the graceless, supposedly hilarious splat of a fly swatter. The unexpectedly delicate balance struck by the 1984 film has been replaced with ham-fisted broadness.

Luke Goodsell