Training Day (2001) Review
Denzel’s Alonzo Harris tells it like it is.
Alonzo Harris, the diabolical detective played by Denzel Washington in Antoine Fuqua’s Training Day (2001), screams in desperation and superb conceit: “King Kong ain’t got shit on me!”. It might be the only true thing Alonzo says in the whole film. He never gives in, never surrenders – a monster and a tyrant, yes, but a fighter above all, and therein lies our sympathy for him.
Owing money to the Russians, Alonzo has his life’s journey in one day of defiance, crime, double-crossing and murderous pragmatism. Corrupt cops (his superiors) tell him he’s in way over his head, he should stop; his mistress (Eva Mendes), and mother of his son, wants him to quit; his partner (Ethan Hawke), a rookie, keeps reminding him of morality and the law––– Alonzo heeds none of these calls, and keeps going, going until he’s gone. In a sense, he’s right: he knows the city, drug-ridden Los Angeles, better than any of them, he owns the streets, the crooks, and their victims. He knows, then, that righteousness, moderation, prudence have no place here: “the streets”, always a great metaphor for the world, don’t reward that kind of virtue. They reward, rather, doubling down, pushing it to the limit, temerity.
In Alonzo Harris’ L.A. there’s no room for Aristotle’s virtuous mean, and only excesses can either make a man or break him. Alonzo made his way up with hubris for that’s the only strategy his world taught him. Why give up now? When he is at his lowest, clearly defeated, he is at the top of his bullish hyperbole: “King Kong ain’t got shit on me!” There’s no redemption for this man: you either gun him down or he’ll keep pushing it.
Training Day missed the chance at being a masterpiece. A more spirited director would have nailed it by focusing on the moral drama behind the plot instead of losing time with action sequences which last too long. It’s Denzel’s formidable performance, in the end, which steals the show. Visceral, violent and crude: most of all, unredeemable. Very few performances in the history of cinema carry such intensity, such totality. Without Denzel this film would be impossible. Ethan Hawke’s character, Officer Jake Hoyt, is but a counterpoint to Alonzo’s greatness: like Nick Carraway in Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby¸ he is a good and common man who witnesses the decline of a legendary figure.
Alonzo Harris is, indeed, legendary. Not in the script, not in the directing, but in Denzel’s brilliance. He sculpts this terrible dramatic beast, a destructive force which must be stopped or else he’ll consume everything in his way, and bring the whole city down.
The film unravels in one day, Jake’s training day, which happens to be the day of Alonzo’s downfall. Denzel presents Alonzo, first, as a good rascal, a bit scary since he’s a police officer, but agreeable in general. Gradually, however, we realize the devil’s in the details.
Alonzo is subtle, like the serpent, and a cynical relativist. Jake’s naïve idealism are successively dismantled by his cold reasoning. He might argue like a Marxist, emphasizing the harsh material realities of society vis-à-vis the ideological hypocrisies of justice; he might argue like a Foucauldian, with a keen eye for power relations and the social structures of discipline and psychological oppression. Either way, Jake can only say, “but that’s not right!”, which is not enough. We know it’s not right, but Alonzo succeeds in equating right with stupidity, and people fear stupidity, or, better saying, fear being seen as stupid, above all. Alonzo teases Jake, the “rookie”, on these terms. You want to follow the rules strictly? Suit yourself being a joke, an idiot who doesn’t know any better. You want to do justice? Break the rules – that’s the way the game is, you’re just a player, then be a good player, not a loser.
Of course, Alonzo’s purpose is not justice, but his own benefit. He seeks personal advantage; the arguments are just a way to justify it. He’s a scoundrel, after all. And a scoundrel will always be quick, much too quick, in bringing about “society” and “the way things really are” to justify his unjustifiable ways. Relativism is often an instrument of wickedness. The classical way of rationalizing depravity is by turning it into a necessity: given the way of the world and how everything goes, then it’s either depraved or foolish, goes the reasoning. So you better be depraved. This hides in itself an unquestioned moral assumption, namely, foolishness is worse than depravity: it is the worst thing that can befall a human being, apparently, if we follow this line of reasoning. (“Why?”, one might ask, “Why do people fear seeming foolish and naïve so much?” Shame is likely the answer: evil seems more tolerable than derisory exposure. Better to be criticized and attacked than to be ridiculed.)
Without Denzel, Alonzo’s character could be too irritating in his justifications, or too disgusting in his actions. But Denzel makes us root for him at times, and only when his viciousness turns explicit do we refrain from this wicked figure.
Training Day is, as of now, Denzel’s finest moment on the screen. Robert Zemeckis’ Flight, the underrated Carl Franklin thriller Out of Time, Carl Schenkel’s The Mighty Quinn, Ridley Scott’s American Gangster, Spike Lee’s Malcolm X –– all excellent films which fall short of true greatness, mostly due to the directors. The one thing they have in common is Denzel’s overwhelming presence, without which they’d sink.
Denzel’s career lacks only one thing, the one thing which could definitely place him in the pantheon alongside De Niro, Pacino, Nicholson, Brando, etc., and that is an inarguable cinematic masterpiece.
