D+

Back in 1980, Robert Redford starred in a prison picture called “Brubaker.” It was entirely characteristic of its time–an earnest, preachy drama about a reformist young warden who fought a corrupt system to bring humanitarian change to his institution in a Southern state. Now, with his hair showing the effects of age and his face lined with an abundance of wrinkles, Redford is appearing in yet another prison movie, and “The Last Castle” is the product of its era, too. Directed by Rod Lurie, a former radio movie critic who was responsible for last year’s floridly overwrought political melodrama “The Contender” (as well as the silly, claustrophobic “Fail Safe”-style nuclear thriller “Deterrence”), from a script by neophyte David Scarpa and veteran Graham Yost, it’s nothing more than a simple-mindedly macho action flick masquerading as a serious, thought-provoking piece about honor and justice. Vacuous and, especially at the close, mercilessly jingoistic, it makes “Brubaker”–a mediocre flick by any standard–seem positively brilliant in retrospect.

Essentially “Castle” is an updating of “Cool Hand Luke” to a modern military stockade, minus the eggs and the intelligence. Redford plays the legendary General Gene Irwin, a highly decorated Vietnam War POW who remained in the service and has recently been court-martialed for ignoring orders by undertaking an assault in Africa in which eight of his men died. He arrives at the prison to find it commanded by Colonel Winter (James Gandolfini), a martinet who brutalizes his captives into submission. (We’re shown straight on that Winter is both effete and sadistic; he constantly listens to classical music–mostly Bach and Mozart–on a high-grade CD system, and has his thuggish guards incite the men to fight with one another or, when the prisoners get out of hand, instructs them in effect shoot to kill.) It doesn’t take long for a contest of wills to develop between the two men. Irwin is reluctantly persuaded to instill a sense of purpose and camaraderie in the demoralized prisoners, threatening Winter’s smug supremacy; Winter, in response, decides to snuff out the rebelliousness posthaste. The result is a lot of gamesmanship between them, a contest played by Irwin like a chess match culminating in a mass uprising designed to have Winter removed from his post.

It goes without saying that this is an inherently silly scenario, pompous and dumb in approximately equal measure. The whole idea of a carefully-plotted mass rebellion at a military prison is ludicrous to begin with, but the ease with which the ruffians incarcerated there fall into line behind Irwin’s presence is frankly absurd. The personal conflict, meanwhile, is presented far too crudely as being between a true warrior who knows how to lead and a posturing paper- pushing poseur, between an honest hero (flawless despite his mistake on the battlefield) and a preening phony; but since neither character is anything but a cardboard sketch, the result isn’t at all compelling, especially as they’re brought to non-life by the leads. The fact that Redford pretty much sleepwalks his way through the picture comes as no great surprise; he’s been playing on his iconic status for years, and this role is no exception (especially when Irwin is forced to endure unjust punishment, as in a horribly obvious scene involving his moving a pile of heavy stones back and forth across an exercise field–Paul Newman’s egg consumption seemed a far greater accomplishment). Gandolfini’s ineffectiveness, however, is rather shocking. With his lips tightly pursued and sinister smile periodically breaking out across his face, he seems corseted by the part, especially since his antipathy toward Irwin has so puerile a basis–he overhears the general bad-mouthing his collection of war memorabilia as the sort of stuff no real combat soldier would ever amass; he’s certainly no Strother Martin. Every other character in the piece is nothing more than a type, and even good actors like Mark Ruffalo (of “You Can Count on Me,” playing the flippant cynic who must decide whether to turn heroic) and Delroy Lindo (as a hard-as-nails general) can’t do anything with their stock characters. A particularly embarrassing performance is turned in by Clifton Collins, Jr. as a stuttering Hispanic marine who becomes Irwin’s first acolyte (the equivalent of the George Kennedy character in “Luke”) ; it’s very difficult not to laugh during a particularly dopey sequence in which he’s penalized for saluting the general, against camp rules–needless to say, a horrendous rainstorm conveniently comes up as he stands for hours on end on the parade grounds in perpetual salute. The moment that Aguilar, as Collins’ character is called, first appears on the screen you know he’s dead meat, and the script does with him precisely as you expect.

Technically “The Last Castle” has been made with considerable polish: the cinematography is good, the production design impressive. The massed crowd scenes are skillfully choreographed, even in the long climactic battle; though the entire episode is lacking in credibility (topped by a ludicrous bit in which one major character survives what would necessarily have been a fatal helicopter crash with barely a scratch, and a final “uplifting” scene that’s offensively manipulative), its strategic stages are kept clear and distinct. But the editing by Michael Jablow and Kevin Stitt allows things to plod far too often–they, and Lurie, are entirely too deferential to Redford’s static stoicism–and old pro Jerry Goldsmith, whose work is usually so dependable, falls back on the worst cliches in his score. By showcasing blaring brass fanfares to tell us when our hearts should soar patriotically, he practically parodies the brilliantly evocative trumpet passages he used so memorably in his music for “Patton.” Perhaps he realized that this assignment was pretty hopeless and failed even to try anything new.

But the fatal flaws in “The Last Castle” center on the silly, derivative script, Lurie’s hamfisted direction and the ineffectual lead performances. The result is a thoroughly meretricious film that pretends to be about honor and courage but actually comes down to the cheapest sort of adrenalin-pumping. At the close much is made about the raising of the American flag upside down, which (as is explained to us with tiresome repetition) is a universal signal of distress. In this case, unfortunately, the distress is something viewers will be feeling, queasy from being so brutally manipulated by a picture that’s just a Michael Bay movie with delusions of grandeur.