The casting of Reeves is perhaps the most dubious thing about this movie, based on the long-running comic book Hellblazer published by DC Comics' adult-oriented imprint Vertigo. After all, the character of mordant, chain-smoking demon-fighter John Constantine, as introduced 20 years ago in the Saga of the Swamp Thing, was originally blonde and British -- modeled, in fact, very much after pop star Sting, who would have made a fine Constantine had Warner Bros. believed him capable of carrying a franchise, which this is clearly meant to be. Then, of course, there's the slight problem of watching Reeves try to wriggle out of one messiah role and into another, in a story that bears a striking resemblance to the Matrix bedtime tales told by Andy and Larry Wachowski. But most knotty is the performance itself: Reeves so underplays Constantine that his wisecracks escape as whispers, suggesting that a guy who gained much of his supernatural powers by attempting suicide as a young man is more dead than alive. The movie's biggest spark comes from Constantine's Zippo, used to fire the Marlboro that perpetually dangles from the lips and fingertips of this dead man walking.
By all rights, the movie, too, should have been dead on arrival: Its source material, more than 200 Hellblazer issues written over the years by the likes of Neil Gaiman and Brian Azzarello and Garth Ennis and other revered comic book scribes, is dense and complex, a thorny tangle of religion, magic, spirituality, faith, and fallibility masquerading as a "superhero" book, occasionally with vicious demons and costumed demigods. To believe that a director of Britney Spears music videos (Francis Lawrence, a feature first-timer) and a writer of Steven Seagal movies (Kevin Brodbin, author of 1996's The Glimmer Man) would wrest meaningful coherence from so sprawling a text was too much to hope for. Yet they've succeeded by paring Hellblazer down to its essential theme: the damned John Constantine's effort to keep from winding up in hell by saving earth from the devils who'd claim it as their own.
Its plot is as old as religion itself, pitting God against Satan in a power struggle over the souls of humankind. Having long ago agreed to keep their hands off folks, they let their "half-breed" emissaries do their work for them -- the "influence peddlers," as Constantine calls them, who whisper things in our ears but never directly interfere. Constantine gets involved only when a half-breed steps out of line: In this case it's Balthazar (Gavin Rossdale, frontman for the god-awful Bush) and Gabriel (Tilda Swinton, once more playing androgynous) who are attempting to bring the devil's son into this world to create a hell on earth so they might find those who "will be worthy of God's love in heaven." To do so, they must use the Spear of Destiny, tipped with the blood of Christ at his Crucifixion; imagine this, if you will, as a sequel to The Passion of the Christ.
What Constantine offers is a deceptively thoughtful tale tricked up like an action movie; it's beautiful to look at, but even more lovely to ruminate over. To the filmmakers, this is a story not about fighting but about faith: It's not enough to know God exists, as Gabriel explains to Constantine, because knowing is not the same as believing in God, which involves forgiveness, unconditional love, and, most important, sacrifice. Come to think of it, sounds like The Matrix, only done much, much better. Hell of a thing.