Should every flawed Denzel Washington movie be reborn as a limited series? The question sounds absurd until one considers the streaming services’ appetite for new material. Get me Netflix Chief Content Officer Bela Bajaria on the phone right now, and I will sell her an eight-episode reimagining of Glory, the 1989 Civil War drama featuring Washington and a grievously miscast Matthew Broderick. Surely Apple TV could squeeze a season or two out of Virtuosity, Washington’s 1995 sci-fi flick dismissed by Rolling Stone as “stillborn.”
One needn’t play make-believe to grasp the risks of this kind of “content” strategy. The Rainmaker (1997), Francis Ford Coppola’s middling adaptation of a John Grisham novel, recently found new life as a weekly drama on Peacock. I watched half of the first season before destroying it in these pages. Meanwhile, Steven Spielberg’s Minority Report (2002) was overpraised to begin with and certainly fared no better as a hapless 10-episode series on Fox in 2015. Far more uncommon is a big-screen-to-small-screen remake of the quality of Fargo, Noah Hawley’s memorable if uneven take on the Coen brothers’ 1996 masterpiece.
It is within this context that Netflix releases Man on Fire, a seven-episode reimagining of the novel by A.J. Quinnell. Although the Englishman’s book first leapt into cinemas as a film by French director Élie Chouraqui in 1987, only Tony Scott’s frenetic 2004 effort is now remembered. By almost every reasonable measure, Netflix’s new series is superior to that movie, offering respectable action thrills in place of Scott’s jittery stylizations. The problem lies in what the production lacks. Try as he might, showrunner Kyle Killen (Lone Star) could not find a contemporary actor on par with an in-his-prime Washington.
Instead, the show stars the determined but dull Yahya Abdul-Mateen II (Aquaman) as John Creasy, a former Special Forces mercenary who has lapsed into alcoholism and despair. Having lost his team during an ill-fated operation, Creasy is floundering until a visit from colleague Paul Rayburn (Bobby Cannavale) offers him new hope. Paul’s plan for his friend is a generous one: join the Rayburn family in Rio and help the Brazilian government fight radicals. Sadly, the terrorists have learned how to make bombs. At the end of the pilot episode, Paul’s high-rise in upscale Leblon comes crashing down, killing all within.
As with Scott’s version of the story, Man on Fire concerns our hero’s attempt to protect a female charge. Here, the young woman in question is not the daughter of wealthy strangers but Poe Rayburn herself, spared by luck from the attack that took her parents’ lives. Played by British ingenue Billie Boullet (A Small Light), Poe is 16, temperamental, and brash, a far cry from Dakota Fanning’s artless sweetness in the 2004 film. She is also the sole remaining witness to the blast, wanted by all and trapped below the equator unless Creasy can spirit her away.
The Brazilian Tourist Board will likely have mixed feelings, but Netflix’s series uses its South American canvas to fine effect. Beautiful Leblon gives way to teeming mountainside favelas as Poe and Creasy hide out and buy time. Federal officials perch on the razor’s edge of their semi-failed state, aware that any wobbling could mean disgrace or death. I have no idea how accurate any of this is. Presumably, the gangsters who threaten Poe in the third episode would, in real life, do more than laugh threateningly. As scripted drama, however, it works. Brazil is troubled, and no one with a badge deserves our trust. On the other hand, it’s not exactly North Korea. When security chief Prado Soares (Thomas Aquino) offers Creasy his help, we are inclined to listen.
Man on Fire’s early episodes are sprightly, following our protagonist as he rediscovers old authority and skill. At times, this business is brutal. The show delights in torture, and an interrogation scene featuring sulfuric acid, hydrogen peroxide, and a language barrier may well turn out to be the tensest viewing of the year. More often, however, the action is straightforwardly engaging: expertly filmed and choreographed, coherent, and vaguely ridiculous — in a word, perfection, assuming one enjoys the genre. Rewatching Scott’s film last week, I was shocked by how badly the director’s dizzying jump cuts have aged. Netflix’s take, by contrast, feels almost restrained. It turns out that Quinnell’s buddy plot with a twist is sufficiently entertaining without the editing hijinks.
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Those who dislike this kind of thing will find much to criticize, of course. Boullet, good enough if one merely needs a pouty face, struggles mightily in more workaday scenes — say, an evening at home with family. One can almost hear an offscreen Killen imploring her to give her “brother” a noogie. The show’s dialogue is aphoristic and inept (“If you can’t trust the men below you, you’d do well to reconsider the man in front of you”), and its villains are far too often interchangeable voices on phones. An early episode sees Creasy flying and landing a plane with no training. How hard could it be? Then again, you didn’t ask me whether the show is realistic. You asked me whether it’s any good.
With one major caveat, it is. Indeed, sillier fun may not be had on TV anytime soon. What is less promising, alas, is Abdul-Mateen’s future as an action star. About as magnetic as a rubber hose, the 39-year-old would be hard-pressed to find Washington’s shoes, never mind filling them. Such is the power of charisma onscreen. Washington’s Man on Fire is a hyperactive affront to the senses, stuck forever in 2004. But I might still prefer it.
Graham Hillard is the TV critic for the Washington Examiner magazine.