Whether DiPalma likes it or not, the audience is entitled to think of this as the B-movie companion piece to "Scarface", since DiPalma is mapping the same terrain with assist from "Scarface" star Pacino once again playing an Hispanic mobster in the late 1970s. However, all the play-it-to-the-max ballsiness of the older film has been lost. And that the Pacino character here is a reformed mobster, much older and mellower than Scarface could ever hope to become, only excuses this in part - specifically, the sappy romanticism that finds its focus on the relationship between Carlito and Gail - which would be wholly unbelievable if this clearly weren't a B-movie to begin with, with all the plot-loops, stereotypes, "message" and daffy sentimentalism that implies.
Still, even granting all this, there's a lot wrong here; That the Italians that show up at Carlito's club at the end all have names of the Family bosses of New York may have seemed witty when written, but unfortunately serious mob-watchers - and mob-movie watchers - may feel at first confused and then disappointed - the film seems to be playing for realism here, but it's only a joke after-all. Sean Penn starts the film at top form, but somewhere along the line decides it's not worth the effort, and he's almost right. Pacino himself seems to be running out of energy - his Spanish accent in "Scarface" was overdone, but was consistent with the character; here, he wanders into southern drawl, general Manhattanese, and 'Donnie Brasco' 'wop' (no offense, you know what I mean), trying to find some focus to his character that will explain his pulling punches while leaving him an edge. But he doesn't make it; Carlito feels like the wimp others think he's become. And when he needs his smarts most, they let him down - not just his smarts, but his actor, his director and his writer. Finally one has to remark the late '70s kitsch filling the background here. We saw this kitsch before, in "Scarface", where it played an important role in defining the emptiness of the culture Montana so desperately wants to dominate; here, it just floats around in the background, largely unfinished (those Afros! not every brother wore them in those days!), taking up space.
But the real problem here is that a B-movie "Scarface" companion piece ought to be a distillation of the action episodes with some swift dialog to hold it together. This film is WAY too long and drawn-out. DiPalma used his slower moments in "Scarface" to give us rich set-pieces of humor and irony, like the cunnilingus-gesture pick-up scene, or the wildly gaudy room-sized bubble-bath scene. Here, the slow moments are filled with, well - talk; and if the talk were interesting, these would be bearable; but it's not, so they aren't.
It's a well-made and watchable crime-story, but it not only pretends to more, it could have been more, much more; so it doesn't even get "B" for effort.
Still, even granting all this, there's a lot wrong here; That the Italians that show up at Carlito's club at the end all have names of the Family bosses of New York may have seemed witty when written, but unfortunately serious mob-watchers - and mob-movie watchers - may feel at first confused and then disappointed - the film seems to be playing for realism here, but it's only a joke after-all. Sean Penn starts the film at top form, but somewhere along the line decides it's not worth the effort, and he's almost right. Pacino himself seems to be running out of energy - his Spanish accent in "Scarface" was overdone, but was consistent with the character; here, he wanders into southern drawl, general Manhattanese, and 'Donnie Brasco' 'wop' (no offense, you know what I mean), trying to find some focus to his character that will explain his pulling punches while leaving him an edge. But he doesn't make it; Carlito feels like the wimp others think he's become. And when he needs his smarts most, they let him down - not just his smarts, but his actor, his director and his writer. Finally one has to remark the late '70s kitsch filling the background here. We saw this kitsch before, in "Scarface", where it played an important role in defining the emptiness of the culture Montana so desperately wants to dominate; here, it just floats around in the background, largely unfinished (those Afros! not every brother wore them in those days!), taking up space.
But the real problem here is that a B-movie "Scarface" companion piece ought to be a distillation of the action episodes with some swift dialog to hold it together. This film is WAY too long and drawn-out. DiPalma used his slower moments in "Scarface" to give us rich set-pieces of humor and irony, like the cunnilingus-gesture pick-up scene, or the wildly gaudy room-sized bubble-bath scene. Here, the slow moments are filled with, well - talk; and if the talk were interesting, these would be bearable; but it's not, so they aren't.
It's a well-made and watchable crime-story, but it not only pretends to more, it could have been more, much more; so it doesn't even get "B" for effort.