the eXile - Krazy Kevin's Kino Korner

Issue #12/93, June 22 - July 6, 2000

Written in Sixty Seconds

I’m Krazy Kevin and I’m back from the dead. Chillin’ on the beach, down at Club Med.

Yeah, yeah—I know what you’re thinking. But somehow, the way I feel right now, it seems appropriate to be paraphrasing the lamest Beastie Boy of them all: Mike D. Anyway, it’s better than dusting off that venerable old Mark Twain quote, now isn’t it?

So at some point during my alleged-death experience, I finally got around to seeing Ridley Scott’s Gladiator—and on the big screen no less, so you can’t accuse me of having missed anything in the translation to video. Seems that my original pre-viewing take—via Mr. Taibbi—was more or less right on the money. The opening “Germania” battle scene does in fact kick ass—at least until Russell Crowe falls off his horse and it turns into a cheap knockoff of those imitation video-game shots at the start of Shaving Ryan’s Privates. That first shot of the thousand flaming arrows flying through the twilight is especially nice.

Otherwise, the whole thing is just way too long. Joaquin Phoenix (why couldn’t he died there on the ground right along with his pretty boy junky brother) may be unpleasant to watch. But that doesn’t necessarily make him a good movie villain. His excessive screen time might have been bearable if that hot Danish chick who plays his sister had gotten at least partially naked, but alas she doesn’t. And that tiger scene in the Coliseum is totally overrated.

Nevertheless, there is something minimally intriguing about a film that comes out and calls itself Gladiator, yet blatantly ignores the obvious homoerotic subtext implied by such a title (not to mention its own contents). In fact, the whole enterprise—especially following such quasi-epics as Kevin Kostner’s Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves—sort of calls for someone to come along a make a full-on black-white buddy gladiator epic in the manner of the Lethal Weapon films. There would be no sex (homosexual or otherwise), no action, no suspense... just clumsy slapstick and corny non-jokes with punchlines alluding to circa-1987 pop culture minutiae. If Danny Glover and Mel Gibson could be gotten to star, then so much the better.

As for the “new” cinema out in our fair city’s theaters, things are looking far from fine. Pretentious mud-people who fancy that they speak English with a British accent may be excited about the festival of New British Film this week, but that’s no reason why you should. For example, at least two of the films in the festival are directed by Michael Winterbottom (Welcome to Sarajevo). One of them copies a U2 song for its title (With or without You). And last I heard, Mike Leigh still hasn’t made anything in recent years remotely approaching the pure comedic nihilism of Naked. Tim Roth’s directorial debut, The War Zone, may be a festival sensation (I don’t really know—I’m just quoting that twit from Afisha), but think to yourself for a second what that really means. Besides, haven’t we all had enough of these passable actors insisting on becoming directors (in other words, full-fledged auteurs)? Seems to me even Antonio Banderas marked his directorial debut not to long ago, and with his wife starring no less. These overfed coke-heads will simply not stop until every last Hollywood fucker who appeared in Four Rooms has directed his or her own universally ignored feature film. (For anyone who’s pedantically keeping score, that would definitely include aging sea hag Madonna—you don’t think she negotiated that recording/film subsidiary for nothing, do you?).

The other side of the English Channel is equally busy this week. Just look at the current listings (Les amants criminels, Une liaison pornographique, etc.). If it’s not some frog with a mustache performing cunnilingus on his bored girlfriend, then it’s some mustache-less frog happily spooning with some retarded chick who herself sports a pretty impressive mustache. Fuck that. Seems to me the French won the World Cup or something a few years ago, and that ought to be good enough for them.

Otherwise, we’re talking fin-de-siecle Woody Allen (Sweet and Lowdown), multi-Oscar-nominated John Irving adaptation (The Cider House Rules), and various other snorefests whose .com URLs contain the word “movie” after the name (Where the Money Is).

Fuck all that. Fuck it a hundred times. In the ear. Both ears if it makes you feel better.

Which leaves us with GONE IN SIXTY SECONDS. There are a lot of unimportant things about this particular summer blockbuster. Fifty-one-year-old Director Dominic Sena, for example (if you’ve never heard of him, it’s because his only previous feature credit was Kalifornia). It’s also a remake of the 1974 car-chase classic Gone in 60 Seconds (the difference being the spelled-out number in the title). Then there’s hottie-of-the-month Angelina Jolie (she sports off-putting salon-manufactured dreadlocks and never once comes anywhere close to getting naked).

No, all that really matters is that this is a Jerry Bruckheimer Film (“Film” being capitalized for a very good reason). True, old Jerry has never been quite the same since his partner Don Simpson inevitably fell victim to that ingrained Hollywood habit of having overflowing bowls of various controlled substances available on the living-room coffee table literally at all times. Nevertheless, even in the year 2000, the summer Jerry Bruckheimer release is as much an institution as mom, apple pie, and bowling balls with liquid centers. Which means that no matter how bad the movie actually is, it will still top the box office charts its opening weekend, then quickly disappear from sight as if it never existed.

At least in this case, it’s a Jerry Bruckheimer film starring Nicholas Cage. True, Nick hasn’t really made a decent flick in nearly a decade, but at least in this case he gets to try on a bogusly folksy handle (Randall “Memphis” Raines) and drive around LA in a classic American car (a 1967 Shelby GT Mustang, painted an endearing shade of silver with slim black racing stripes). He gets to do one of those classic Cage-y hand-gesture scenes as well. Even if the overall car-chase quotient is a little disappointing, the final blowout at least leaves you with the feeling that the $90 million budget wasn’t blown completely in vain.

Does that make it all somehow worthwhile? Fuck, I don’t know. That’s really up to you, now isn’t it?

And believe me, I hate Giovanni Ribisi every bit as much as you do. Unless you’re one of those girls who reads the teeny-bopper fan mags. In which case, send me a picture of your snapper.

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