XENITH

Among the joys of possessing a modicum of education is some entitlement to the occasional smug glow.

By long and devoted watching of ER and House, and paying a little attention in lectures along the way, I came to some grasp of what ‘v-tach!’ and ‘asystole!’ actually mean. Where I come from, terms seldom including an implied exclamation mark, as those may soon become defunct on the NHS.

Still, valuable lessons all, much like the hospital morgue etiquette and astoundingly lax security illustrated by Pathology. This 2008 medical chiller comprises a thoughtful, considered meditation on the nature of life and death, the human condition, and our primal nature…

Actually, bollocks it does.

Pathology rattles through its brisk ninety-odd minutes and flimsy, vaguely familiar premise (Flatliners had attractive young medics being too clever for their own good twenty years earlier) with all the flash and dash of a high-concept music video, and about the same consideration for plot, character development and dialogue. Or even consistency. Courtesy of director Marc Schölermann, a slick, if ludicrous Hollywood debut.

As per tradition on small and silver screen, Pathology’s gloomy hospital seems unusually populous with the beautiful and arrogant. Newbie Dr. Ted Grey (Milo Ventimiglia, Heroes, Gilmore Girls, Rocky Balboa, a music video or two) finds himself anxious to get in with the cool kids against his better judgement – a pack of amoral interns whose extracurricular activities include plotting the perfect murder, detectable by nary a scalpel, test-tube or microscope.

While under the tutelage of Dr. Morris (a lugubrious, heroically deadpan John de Lancie, Star Trek: The Next Generation), young Teddy leaves behind a pining, sweet natured intended (Alyssa Milano, Charmed). As per another set of well-worn movie traditions, her very gooey-eyed comeliness dooms her to something nasty. But, I’m getting ahead of the story.

She’s no idea when he falls in with shifty-eyed Sparknotes-Nihilist Jake and chums. Proof of how shocking this lot are? There’s bemusing knife play and bacchanalian revelry around toe-tagged corpses in the small hours. There’s flinging bits of liver at the nerds. More shocking, Jake’s girlfriend, Juliette and her wont to inappropriate toe fondling, make out sessions with a female friend in front of a crowd at any opportune moment. Oh, and Ted’s presence leads to a daft, sneering alpha-male stand off, which galvanises The Game.

The body count rockets until Teddy suffers an attack of conscience when Jake’s worrying tendencies culminate in a frenzied rampage. With a climactic explosion, Pathology completes the classic triad of celluloid teen-boy fantasy: blood, boobs, and boom!

But, don’t worry girls (and indeed, some of the boys). There’s sufficient expanse of Ventimiglia’s milky skin on show to divert you – not a stand in, not that I checked. Not at all. But, I digress.

The star’s lovely bottom aside, he can’t make Teddy real enough for the viewer to care what happens to him. The point, rammed home with a big, shiny cleaver, is of course that the fight for civilisation and morality is pointless, as we are all animals with the evolutionary imperative to kill, and only a thin veneer separates Ted from the monstrous Jake.

Because that’s, like, so deep, dude.

The screenplay doesn’t have the give required to convey Ted’s wrestle with his scruples, or even have him show a little vulnerability. We’re meant to believe he’s a good but ambitious man corrupted, but next to Jake the maniac, he comes across as wooden. Heroes, self-important tosh though it is, at least allowed Ventimiglia to play to his strengths as pale-and-interesting dreamer Peter Petrelli. The other cast members of Pathology get scarcely a look-in, little more than eye candy and bags of meat by turns, sometimes both at once.

Taken for the forgettable popcorn-fodder it is, Pathology isn’t the worst way to while away an evening – there’s skill in its sleek, moody glamour, and wheeling, nightmarish visions of the city by night. There’s the odd bit of grinding angry-white-boy music, if you like that sort of thing, but in all, sadly insufficient material to sustain the film’s pretensions.

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