The Ladykillers
dir. Joel and Ethan Coen
Touchstone Pictures

While plugging Joel and Ethan Coen's latest film and speaking of what a privilege it was to work with them, Tom Hanks told David Letterman he still isn't sure which of the brothers is which. The crowd cracked up. Hanks thoughtfully brought a gift for Letterman's son, Harry — an Oscar. "No problem, got plenty of 'em," he said. More laughter. He also mentioned that "no ladies were killed during the making of The Ladykillers." True to form, Hanks was charming and funny. Letterman introduced him as "a lovely man, a gentleman in the truest sense of the word." Like Sara Lee, nobody doesn't like Tom Hanks. Which is exactly why it's so much fun to watch him play such an evil ass.

The evil ass in question is Professor Goldthwait Higginson Dorr, who first appears at the door of Marva Munson as an ominous silhouette. Marva, a churchgoing widow, is played by the adorable Irma P. Hall, whose mammoth bosom and extremely bowed legs are evident even in long shot. The professor wants to rent her available room and use her cellar to practice playing music with his friends. "I am quiet," he says, making his case as the ideal tenant. "Yet, not quiet." He's also not legit. He's masterminding a "caper" — tunneling underground from Marva's cellar to the vault of a nearby riverboat casino.

The film is a remake of the 1955 Alec Guinness/Peter Sellers version. The Coens switched the original's London locale to rural Mississippi, allowing them to create the cape-wearing, Poe-quoting, pseudo-Southern gentleman into whom Hanks sinks his prosthetic teeth.

From the opening credits, the film has the look and feel of the Coen brothers, but as Dorr's cohorts are introduced, it's thrown strangely off-kilter. We meet Gawain (Marlon Wayans), Pancake (J.K. Simmons) and the General (Tzi Ma), and they collectively grind the film to a halt. The sole exception is Lump (Ryan Hurst), a football player whose simplemindedness and hard luck on the field are neatly exposed through a first-person virtual reality clip. Each of the gang has a moment or two to shine, but their scenes mostly play as comic near-misses. Wayans, a funny guy, is handicapped by his character's foul mouth and aggressive attitude. Hurst grossly overplays Lump's stupidity. Simmons has the misfortune of having to get laughs via irritable bowel syndrome, and Ma's General might just as well have been a moustached mannequin.

But The Ladykillers always gets back on track through the inspired solos and duets of Hanks and Hall. Literally bobbing and weaving around each other, measuring each other for the knockout punch, the actors' scenes together — electric and crisp — play like opening-night theater.

The script is a marvel of diction and precision. Here and there, the Coens' calling cards — absurdity, surrealism, chilling violence — make cameo appearances, with the typical polarizing effect: You'll find yourself quiet while others are laughing and laughing while no one else makes a sound. It's uneven and tiresome at times, but when it works — the climax raises goosebumps — you remember why the Coens are the Coens.

Hanks also succeeds through commitment to character. In Cast Away, Chuck Noland finally creates a fire, and in that instant, the Hanks everyone knows and loves breaks through. "I have made fire!" he shouts in that famous Tom Hanks shout and gestures with the mannerisms of a born comedian. He appears to step out of character, if only for a moment, to feel something comfortable — those comic skills that go as far back as "Bosom Buddies." Yet in The Ladykillers, as a broad character in a broad comedy, he plays it straight. Never once does he wink a Tom Hanks wink. Thus, he delivers some of the most strangely touching work of his career.

On Letterman, the good guy in Hanks surfaced when he spoke of his commitment to electric cars. "American people should have the option to drive an all-electric car," he said. "We'd never have to stop at a gas station again." Everyone applauded. Hanks continued: "Unless of course we just want a Slurpee or a Big Gulp or something."

He is serious, yet not serious. And thank goodness for that.

— Robert McEvily (robertmcevily@yahoo.com)