Rating: 1 star
Seven Pounds is a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, cloaked in a really crappy movie.
How best to describe this clunker? Let’s put it this way: Seven Pounds isn’t just bad—it’s historically bad; deserves to be mocked on Mystery Science Theater 3000 bad; “I can’t believe what I just saw” bad. I’ll give my man Will Smith this: He does nothing halfway.
Smith plays Ben Thomas, an extremely bummed out IRS agent. As the film starts, he’s sitting on the edge of a bed in a fleabag motel, calling in a suicide—his own. Then we have flashbacks to happier days when Ben was some sort of aeronautical engineer living in a sweet beachside estate; then fragments of a horrific car crash; then many scenes of Ben being a spectral, stalkerish figure: He harasses a blind telemarketer (Woody Harrelson) to see if he’s a good man; he finds an abused mother of two (Elpidia Carrillo) who needs help getting away from her husband; he shadows a beautiful artist (adorable Rosario Dawson, who deserves better) with a congenital heart defect, and so on. What the heck is happening?...