It takes cleverness and control to pull off this unspoken tension. Shyamalan boasts the former and feigns the latter for a while before his hotdogging impulses take over. He’s like a guy who karaokes Hitchcock and then starts ad-libbing his own tune. We’re never onboard with the premise that a 20,000-plus crowd is the perfect place to arrest an unknown man. But we’re willing to play along until it starts to feel like Shyamalan so enjoys being inside Cooper’s head that he doesn’t want to leave. One fairly satisfying ending launches into encore after encore, with Shyamalan holding court past the time the audience is antsy to wrap up.
The plot is at its best when it’s simply a dad, a daughter and the puzzle he must solve to stay in her life. Hartnett and Donoghue have an affectionate, believable chemistry that’s boosted by the young actor’s natural charm — she doesn’t hit a phony note. To root for Riley’s happiness means rooting for Cooper’s, so every so often, particularly after we’ve cheered his latest brazen bit of genius, we’re reminded there’s a victim (Mark Bacolcol) handcuffed in his murder house. Worse, whenever Cooper needs a diversion, he’s willing to send a stranger’s daughter to the E.R.
The bigger the scope and the more Cooper’s psychology is explained, the less taut the film feels. There’s too much unnecessary trauma talk and hallucinations. Better is the tragic beat when Riley has a once-in-a-lifetime moment but her dad is too distracted to be present. Restless thoughts ripple underneath Cooper’s skin. Then he feels guilty, then he realizes smiling publicly at his daughter will help him survive. It’s pure silent comedy pathos.
Shyamalan captures the rhythms of a modern arena show, even squeezing in a dig at an egomaniacal surprise guest, a zesty bit of mockery by Scott Mescudi, a.k.a. Kid Cudi. Parents of Swifties will get déjà vu from the pretzels, the folding chairs, the Jumbotron and the church-like spirituality of a mass of fans holding up their lit phones to make something beautiful out of their shared pain.
Lady Raven’s groupies are called, naturally, “The Flock,” and they have a fancy for feathered wings and glittery mesh sleeves. Shyamalan’s eldest daughter, Saleka, plays the star and wrote and performed original songs in the film. She’ll probably take some nepo baby grief for it, especially since Shyamalan was a producer on a movie by her sibling, Ishana Night Shyamalan, earlier this summer. But Saleka’s music is pretty good, a kind of ethereal goth powered by her husky voice and a propulsive beat. Executing Cora Kozaris’s choreography in thigh-high boots, she’s a convincing pop star — and underneath her croons, you can practically hear Shyamalan whisper, “I love my daughter, too. Is that a crime?”
Trap
Rated PG-13 for bloodless violence and brief strong language. Running time: 1 hour 45 minutes. In theaters.
Read More: ‘Trap’ Review: Pop Goes the Thriller
