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State of Play

• Directed by Kevin Macdonald
• Written by Matthew Carnahan, Tony Gilroy, Billy Ray
• Starring Russell Crowe, Ben Affleck, Rachel McAdams
• Classification: PG

Back when it first surfaced on the BBC, stretched out over six hours six years ago, State of Play was all sizzle and no steak. A murder-mystery triangulated on the incestuous relationship among politicians, the press and the cops, the miniseries strained credulity at every second plot turn, especially when those ink-stained wretches started marching forth under the banner of truth to, you know, afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted. But say this for the thing: A rip-roaring yarn blessed with a typically top-drawer British cast, it really zipped along.

Now comes the film version, which relocates the setting to America and shrinks the original to two feature-friendly hours. That's to be expected. More surprising is what remains and what's missing. The strained plot is still there but, despite the shrinkage, damned if that rip-roaring zip hasn't completely gone. Giving new meaning to movie magic, those Hollywood tricksters have managed to shorten the story while slowing the pace – all of a sudden, minutes are passing like hours.

Editor Cameron Lynne (Helen Mirren) and reporter Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe) try to unravel a tangled tale of political intrigue and murder in State of Play.

In lieu of London, we're in Washington this time, where Cal (a blimped-up Russell Crowe) is a veteran reporter straight out of the Carl Bernstein school – long-haired, rumpled, beefy, but with a Rolodex the size of the Lincoln Memorial. No doubt, the guy's got contacts on the Hill, not least with his buddy the up-and-coming congressman. Enter Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck) and cue the mystery: Collins's hot mistress, who happens to be the lead researcher on his congressional committee, dies in circumstances that may be accidental. Or may not – especially when, after a circuitous twist or three, her demise is linked to the extensive handiwork of a professional assassin, a nasty fellow apparently in the employ of the even nastier company under the committee's investigation.

I'll spare you any further fun-spoiling details, and dwell instead on the writers' laboured attempts (it's a group job with Tony “Doc” Gilroy called in for surgical repairs) to update the material into the cutting-edge present. For instance, they've switched the big bad corporation from an oil conglomerate to a defence contractor, a Halliburton-like outfit benefiting from the government's habit of out-sourcing their armed security requirements. Of course, in this grey new dawn of bailouts and stimulus packages, the problem is that the update already needs an update. C'mon, privatizing the public sector is so yesterday – nationalizing the private sector is where the money's at now.

Meanwhile, back in the newsroom, there's a similar effort to modernize the journalism theme. Cal the senior hound, a Luddite toiling only in print, gets partnered with Della the blogger (Rachel McAdams), a tech-savvy damsel opining online. Says their proud editor (Helen Mirren) of her prodigy: “She's young, she's cheap, and she churns out copy every hour.” Call me biased, but this tension might have proven interesting. Alas, after a few fractious frames, it simply dissolves, whereupon our reconciled duo team up to, you know, afflict more of the comfortable.

By now, director Kevin Macdonald (who fared much better in Uganda with The Last King of Scotland ) is struggling to stuff in those many plot contrivances, all with a deadline looming and the expensive presses waiting to roll. Maybe that's why he wilts under the pressure, stopping not only the presses but the movie too – once so a gaggle of characters can sum up the plot for slow learners in the crowd; then for a reporters-work-the-phones montage, their keyboards co-operatively clacking right in time to the score. Ergo, no zip.

As for the performers, Crowe seems content to disappear beneath his greasy locks and his acquired corpulence. Achieving the same result with a different tactic, Affleck merely hides in plain sight. His politician is less an irresistible force than an immovable object – all clenched jaw and sealed lips and hair so lacquered it might have been painted on with a tar-brush. Briefly, Robin Wright Penn pops up as Collins's wronged wife and Cal's putative love interest. Yet that brings us to another strange absence: The original had some steamy passion, but there's nothing of the sort here – no pants get dropped, nary a bra comes off. What in the good name of gratuitous sex is Hollywood coming to? Has the classic business model shattered?

Speaking of which, let's give the last word to Mirren's crusty editor who, with the faux drama swirling around her, angrily calls our attention to a genuine drama closer to home: “The real story here is the sinking of this bloody newspaper.” Ah, the desperate measures, the human carnage, the false prophets, the shouts and the murmurs and the tweets – now that's a murderous thriller waiting to be made.